


Le seul Innocent [ALTERNATE ENDING]

by the1crazycatlady



Series: Sous la lumière de la lune [2]
Category: Notre-Dame de Paris - Cocciante/Plamondon, Notre-Dame de Paris | The Hunchback of Notre-Dame - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Ending, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bruno Pelletier - Freeform, Depression, Homelessness, I'm Sorry Victor Hugo, Loss of Control, Loss of Faith, Loss of Powers, Misunderstandings, Multi, Narrator Powers, Priests, Rants, Religion, Suicide Attempt, Unrequited Lust, architecture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-04-24 11:51:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 22,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4918450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the1crazycatlady/pseuds/the1crazycatlady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The alternate ending to the other fic of the same name. On the night Frollo was supposed to attempt to rape Esmeralda, something changes the course of events. This leads to people starting to disappear from Pierre Gringoire's Narration Radar, leaving him confused. Meanwhile, Dom Claude's world collapses in on him and he struggles to cope with his emotions. Please read warily.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prélude

**Like the herald had said it would be, Notre Dame's great door is unlocked. Gringoire enters the cathedral and pauses, then turns and shuts the door quietly behind him. He remembers that he's supposed to meet Dom Claude in the Gallery of the Kings.**  
  
**There, Gringoire is somewhat annoyed to find that the priest hasn't arrived yet. He leans against the balustrade, eyes glued to the church entrance doorway. But when Frollo finally makes an appearance, he enters through the bell tower entrance.**  
  
**Dom Claude's hair seems to be even whiter in the moonshine, if such a thing is even possible. The priest joins Gringoire at the balustrade without a single word. Gringoire smiles and Dom Claude seems to relax a fraction - however, it's hard to tell.**  
  
**“Claude,” Gringoire says, stepping closer to the other man as he prepares to wrap him in a comforting embrace. Frollo backs away.**  
  
**“Not here, Pierre,” he whispers, “not the church...” He looks at the sea of twenty-eight kings and shivers. Feeling silly as he does so, Gringoire takes off his coat and hands it to him. Dom Claude takes the coat, shaking his head slowly as he slides it on. The sight of him in the tattered old thing is ridiculous and the poet laughs, but then looks back at the City as a way of being polite - also, he doesn't quite like the look Frollo gives him.**  
  
**“The moon is out tonight,” Gringoire remarks. Dom Claude nods quietly.**  
  
**“I have always found the moon to be beautifully inspirational,” the poet continues, “and, thus, She was my muse.”**  
  
**“ 'Was'?” the priest repeats. Gringoire waves a hand at him.**  
  
**“I became a married man,” he explains. “Though, most truthfully and unfortunately, the moon is far more inspirational than my wife." He pauses. "Perhaps She will accept my apologies and take me back.”**  
  
**“Perhaps,” Dom Claude agrees. He stares up at the moon longingly, then sighs. “The moon always fascinated me," he admits. "I would look at it and wonder.”**  
  
**“What about?”**  
  
**“Nothing,” Frollo replies. He swallows and lowers his gaze. “About nothing.”**  
  
**“Claude,” Gringoire whispers. He feels as though he should say more, but instead remains quiet. Then, hesitantly, he wraps a hand around Dom Claude's waist; the priest bends down and gives him a brief kiss, but too quickly pull himself away.**  
  
**“Pierre, we need to talk.”**  
  
**“What about?” Gringoire wonders. He now can't seem to stop staring at Frollo's snow-white hair.**  
  
**“About what I said in the church,” Dom Claude replies, “about where I am going.”**  
  
**Pierre Gringoire nods, remembering. Frollo shifts, then sighs and pulls himself away. He leans against the closest pillar and begins to pick mindlessly at his robes, lost in thought. Gringoire waits for him to revive, then brushes a finger along the priest's shallow cheeks so as to speed up the process; Frollo blinks, turning and looking at him.**  
  
**“Pierre, I-I-I don't know. I just don't know. I want you to come with me, but it would probably be better for you to stay here, in Paris, with your...wife...”**  
  
**“Claude,” Pierre says, wishing he hadn't mentioned Esmeralda earlier in the conversation.**  
  
**“...After all, you and she are in a matrimonial relationship...of a fashion...and that means that you have certain duties towards her...”**  
  
**“She and I are no more husband and wife than utter strangers,” the poet states monotonously. "And, also, I've heard that she and the other Vagabonds are going to leave Paris."**

**Dom Claude ignores him. “...Of course, I understand that your monetary situation is rather dire, and I shall happily give you everything you may need to be comfortable-”**  
  
**“Claude,” Gringoire says, tone sharp. The priest breaks off and frowns at him.**  
  
**“Claude,” Gringoire repeats. “Claude, please.” He takes Frollo's hands in his own and Dom Claude peers nervously over the poet's shoulder, in the direction of anarkia, as if he is expecting them to be discovered any moment.**  
  
**“I haven't seen Esmeralda-” Frollo cringes at the name, shivering with a sudden chill. “-in many months. She could care less for me, and, while I do admit I love her, it is only because she saved me from certain death in the Court of Miracles.”**  
  
**Dom Claude takes to studying the city spread out below them.**  
  
**“I don't want your money,” Gringoire continues. “Indeed, if I were to have it, I dare say I would die from misery because I would always be reminded of who gave it to me.”**  
  
**Frollo's face is completely blank.**  
  
**“Claude, it's you I want,” the poet says. He pulls the priest's hands up to his lips and kisses them; Frollo goes red in the face, but there is the slightest hint of a smile.**  
  
**“Please let me come with you.”**  
  
**The priest stares at him, contemplating. Then he grunts uncomfortably and pulls his hands away. He leans back against the pillar and looks up at the moon, the only witness to further sin.**  
  
**But he doesn't care about those things anymore. If the past months had done one thing for him, it was that they taught him the truth about himself and everything else that mattered. He knows he doesn't care about what God thinks, because he loves Pierre Gringoire, and if God can't accept that love after all the pain and devotion Frollo had given Him, then the priest will betray Him as He betrayed the priest. It will be hard, but he knows that he will be able to do it now.**

**He looks at the moon; he looks at it long and hard.**

**_No Fate. No God. Nothing._ **  
  
**“All right,” Dom Claude sighs, turning back to the poet with a shake of his head. “But this is a mistake, Pierre.”**  
  
**Gringoire wraps Frollo in a hug and begins to shower him with kisses; Dom Claude flushes, beginning to lose his concentration.**  
  
**“It's a wonderful mistake, then,” Gringoire mumbles. Frollo sighs, smiles, then begins to kiss back.**


	2. L'affrontement

The waiting had become utterly unbearable, and I couldn't stand it. I had to see him, to make sure that he was all right, before he did something horrible to either himself, Esmeralda, or to the both of them. But I knew he wouldn't be happy to see me at such a late hour, and that my presence would be forbidden to boot, but I just _had_  to see him.

It was a warm night, and the Church sometimes likes to leave the front door open on such nights. Conveniently enough, they had. The door to the cloisters were locked of course, but I've spent many hours in the church and knew where the spare key was.

I knocked on the priest's door. “Dom Claude?” There was no response, but I knew he was in there, so I tried again. “Dom Claude?”

Inside the room, I heard movement and the shuffling of feet. Someone leaned against the door and it creaked.

 _“What?”_ His voice was hardly recognizable, all raspy and choked up.

“May I come in?"

“What are you doing here?”

“May I come in?” I repeated.

“No. Now off with you.” The priest's voice was starting to crack; I stared at the door, sighing to myself.

“Please, Dom Claude.” I lowered my voice. “I'm scared – please let me in.”

There was silence on the other side of the door, as if he was remembering that cold, dark night some nine-odd years ago when a terrified boy came knocking on his door, begging for help; the child had said those exact words. You see, the poor thing was shivering with affright after having just witnessed a man get his throat slit over something as trifle as a muddy spot in a gutter. The priest had taken this cold, trembling child into his room and soothed him, mumbling about The Evils of Man and Why You are Better than Them, Pierre Gringoire.

There was a pause, then the door was unlocked and Dom Claude ushered me inside, closing the door softly behind us. Nearly delirious, I waited for him to again steer me over to a seat and sit me down, straightening my coat and asking me why I was upset.

But he didn't do that - of course not. Instead, he just closed the door and took a seat at his desk, waiting for me to say something that would cut the silence.

I sat down on my usual stool and was quiet, collecting my thoughts and rocking my body back and forth.

“I'm upset.”

“So I gathered.” Frollo picked up a pen and ran his fingers along it as he spoke. “Are you going to tell me why, or can I get back to sleep?”

I looked over at his pallet, which was one big mess of tangled blankets and a torn-open pillow. I doubt he slept.

“I'm upset because of you.”

“Me,” he chimed, blinking.

“You just...” I drifted off. “You never... You... I know.”

“Know what, Gringoire? You're a smart man and you know many things; you will have to specify.”

In that moment, I hated him. I hated him and I loved him and I wanted to strangle him and I wanted to kiss him. And he just sat there at his desk, distracted and obviously oblivious to the paroxysm of emotion running through me. I stood up and went over to him, pressing my palms against the desktop and bending down so he had no choice but to look at me.

“I know that you were not sleeping just now, but writhing, resisting the growing urge to scream as an imagined Esmeralda pressed herself against you, showering you with caresses and making you forget yourself.”

He was too shocked to be upset. His eyebrows flew up and he snapped the pen in two.

I felt my face suddenly go wet and I banged a fist against the desktop. “How could you? How  _could_  you? You-You absolutely disgust me, _you..."_

He drew in a breath and stood up in an attempt to overpower me with his greater height. “Monsieur Gringoire, you're overstayed your welcome. I think you should leave.”

“What, leave so you can get back to what you were doing?”

He shot me a dirty look. “I can't help it, Gringoire! All those years of ice and cold...” He rubbed his eyes, then glared at me and sat back down. “I'm tired.”

“Tired?” I repeated, grabbing his shoulders. “ _Tired?_  Is that supposed to move me, make me forget how horrible you are?”

“I do not care how it makes you feel,” he replied, shoving me off of him and standing up again. He stepped away from the desk. “Is it wrong to feel this way?”

“Yes,” I said, putting my foot on his desk. “It's very wrong - you ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

“I am,” Dom Claude whispered; then he groaned. “You don't know, Gringoire. If you knew, you would understand - you would understand how the winter melted away too quickly, and that I just don't have any _reasoning_ anymore..."

I remembered something Dom Claude had thought when the full realization of his inevitable destruction came to him: _I thought I was a man of winter, and yet, here I am, a young tree again._

“I never have enough time to think and my blood...” The priest shuddered, hugging himself. “It boils and burns. I cannot go to sleep at night without-without your...your  _wife_  paying a visit.” He ran his fingers along his scalp and turned away from me – or, more likely, the tangled sheets.

“ 'Paying a visit',” I repeated. Then I went over to the bed and threw myself on it. “You mean she lies on this bed, perhaps like this...” I adjusted myself accordingly, making myself appear as seductive as possible. “...Hair draped lovingly across the pillow...” I reached up and repositioned my hair. “...And catcalls, 'Dom Claude, come preach to me.' ” I reached a hand out to him, puckering my lips and batting my eyes.

“Stop it.”

“And you listen.” I stood up and went over to him. “You come over, albeit reluctantly...” I pulled him over and got back on the bed. “And then...do what you will. Maybe just a  _touch_  at first-”

“Stop it, stop it, _stop it!”_  the Archdeacon shrieked, digging his fingers into his hair and pulling. He collapsed to the ground and I heard stifled sobs. Then there was a long pause.

“You can't understand,” he eventually gasped.

I smirked at him, shaking my head. “I understand more than you think,  _Dom_ Claude; I've had no choice but to be privy to your desires.”

“Impossible... How?” H rose his head up a few degrees.

Now it was my turn to pause awkwardly and eventually stammer out a response; I sat up in bed. “I-I-I just do. Don't look at me like that!” I turned away. “I just...know things as they happen. It's like a curse of God.”

“God does not bestow curses, only misinterpreted blessings.” He pulled himself up off the floor and narrowed his eyes at me. “So I was right.”

“What?” I looked back at him.

“Come now, Gringoire,” he said, shaking his head, “do you think I did not notice? For months now, you have known things you shouldn't. You never see Quasimodo, yet you knew how utterly smitten he is with that witch. You and I both know that you are a terrible liar.”

“W-w-well, what does it matter,” I stated.

“What does it matter,” he repeated coldly; he brushed some dust off his spotless black robes. “Gringoire, you are possessed! It's the demon, the witch! She has cursed you the same as she's cursed me! I tell you, Gringoire, she must be  _stopped_  before she finishes her evil witchery.”

“Oh, Dom Claude!” I got up and grabbed at his robes. “She is a sixteen-year-old girl and she hasn't hurt me the same as she hasn't hurt you.” I shook him, completely powered by emotion. “I know who's possessed here: you. You-you-you're possessed by a compelling desire to stomp out everything that's different from you! God, I hate it!  _I hate you!_ ”

I let go and pushed him back roughly; he fell back and went back down to the ground. The priest looked at me gloomily, but I only looked at his form, unable to bring myself to stare back into those hollow black eyes.

I turned and pushed myself out of the cell.

Outside, I was surprised to find Quasimodo. He looked at me strangely and I turned, walking hurriedly towards the red door, anything to get away-

“Monsieur Gringoire,” the hunchback croaked out; I had no choice but to stop escaping and turn back to him.

“Quasimodo.” It was hard to concentrate. I wanted to get out of there before the priest came out, maybe looking for me to...to what? I couldn't even imagine what the consequences of my statements were. I felt guilty. Upset. How could he?

Quasimodo looked at Dom Claude's door.

“How...much did you hear,” I asked, not really making it a question.

“You and he were talking about Esmeralda.”

That made his time there rather vague; I was about to tell him to go in and talk sense into his foster father, or perhaps to stop loving Esmeralda because she didn't care for him, but he continued: “Monsieur Gringoire, do you know where she is?”

"Esmeralda?” Of course Esmeralda. It was always Esmeralda. “N-”

I suddenly broke off, blinking at the priest's door. Clopin, Esmeralda, and all the other refugees were in prison, Quasimodo was in front of me, and Phoebus was romancing Fleur-de-lys on the Gondelaurier balcony. But Dom Claude was a total mystery.

A sweat grew on the back of my neck; something was wrong.

“Monsieur Gringoire?” Quasimodo asked, limping closer to me. “Are you all right?

“Hm?” I blinked at him. Then I shook my head. “Quasimodo, Esmeralda's at the Prison de la Sante. You  _have_  to get her out of there, Quasimodo, or she'll hang.”

“I-”

“Don't talk, go.” I turned away. “She's to hang at six this morning!"


	3. Affreux confusion

I went back to the empty Court of Miracles, terribly confused. The sun finally rose and it started to rain - I wondered what Dom Claude was doing, and why I had no idea. Meanwhile, had Quasimodo broken into the prison and rescued the foreigners; he took them back to Notre Dame.

I was amazed the Archdeacon let them inside.

For lack of something better to do, I went to the window and watched the rain come down, down, down. When I reached out a hand through the empty glass, I could feel the small beads of water shower down on my thin, cold hand, and it made me shudder. I pulled back in my hand and became lost in thought.

It was all a lie, it seemed - to know everything and not being able to control it, and then suddenly getting the curse lifted for the one I truthfully needed to keep an eye on. It was-

_Clopin._

Clopin was gone, too.

Before coming back to the Court, I remember running, wanting to talk to someone but not really sure who to. Save for the stray prostitute or random refugee, there was no one there for me except Dom Claude. Even if my wife and I had not been separated, I know that she wouldn't have cared to listen.

I shook my head and turned away from the window. Dom Claude and I, old friends, and what had we been brought to? Fighting, arguing over a young, naive little girl. To stray over something so petty-

But she wasn't petty. He slept with her in his thoughts, and it was intolerable.

And then he knew. He'd always known.

"Monsieur Gringoire," I muttered to myself, "that is of the past. For once, put him out of your mind." The priest could live with his guilt and I would stand in the rain, chilled to the bone, _alone_.

“It's his life,” I reminded myself, rubbing at my eyes. “He can die, for it's his life and his stupid mistakes.”

Why had he vanished?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An alternate chapter title for this is "Tamara" because it is loosely based off the Bruno Pelletier song of that selfsame name.


	4. Dans l'eglise du Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois

The rain let up and I pulled myself out of the little nest of misery I had created and drifted over to the Church of Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois. It's a lovely church, very tall, very beautiful – it's particularly lovely during sunrise and sunset, since the tan stones catch the light  _just perfectly..._

Maybe I shouldn't have gone to a church; maybe I should have gone somewhere else instead. Looking at the expressive architecture of that house of prayer, it reminded me of a more remarkable church, and the Archdeacon of that church; he knew I liked the Church of Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois.

I paused in front of the church, looking up at the great, tall tower. I considered going inside. The church would be quiet and empty at that time - did I want it to be quiet and empty?

However, the decision was made for me. A heavy hand was laid on my shoulder and I turned.

_"Salut,_ Dom Claude."

“Monsieur Gringoire.” He slid his hand down my arm and began to pull me into the church. “You are not a difficult man to find, Gringoire.”

“Really,” I said, watching as he pushed the door of the church open. He nodded.

“I assumed that you would either be at the Palace of Justice or here. If you had not been here...” Dom Claude trailed off and sat me down in a pew. I looked around - as I had suspected, the church was quiet and empty.

The Archdeacon spoke. “I suppose you would have been in that place you live. What is it called?”

“The Court of Miracles,” I answered. “Though, I don't really live so much as reside there.”

He was quiet for a minute. I didn't know what he was thinking, and it disturbed me. What was Clopin doing? He and Dom Claude were simply gone.

“I see,” the priest said at last. He sat in the pew tall and straight, like a stick was keeping his posture perfect.

He was supposed to die – soon, very soon. Esmeralda would hang, and Quasimodo would push Frollo down the great staircase leading from the belltower to the rest of the church. That was supposed to happen-

_Is it?_

It suddenly occurred to me. I didn't know what was happening with him anymore because I couldn't. Somehow, his path had been changed from what had been written. Maybe Quasimodo wouldn't push him down the staircase of Notre Dame now. And Clopin... The same must have been for Clopin.

Relief washed over me and I smiled at Dom Claude, temporarily forgetting that I hated him. Did I hate him? I was too relieved to remember.

He looked at me, his face pinched with concern. “Gringoire, about last night-”

I interrupted him; “Forget it.” I turned away from him. “All right, just forget it. We were both upset, and just because I don't approve is no reason to...to act the way I did. I'm sorry.”

Dom Claude didn't say anything. Then: “Are you going to tell someone?”

I shook my head slowly. “Who to tell?” I gave him a very long, hard look. “What are you going to do?”

“I do not want to talk about it.” The stick in his spine vanished for a second, just a second, but quickly returned to its spot just as soon as it had left. "She was going to die-" His voice cracked and he broke himself off, sighing.

“It's like a mountain,” he remarked, looking at the altar. “A complication that reaches the sky.”

Quite a difficult mountain to climb for a man like him; I patted his shoulder. “You've done something right,” I assured him. This made him blink at me and frown.

“What do you mean?” His eyes narrowed. “What do you know now?”

“Nothing,” I replied. “I know nothing.”

Then I smiled weakly at him and scooted closer; the full lengths of our bodies were touching. He swallowed and stiffened...but did not move.

“Gringoire,” he muttered uncomfortably.

“Hm?” My eyes suddenly started to droop, and I suddenly realized that I had been so worried the past few days that I hadn't slept much. I rested my head on his shoulder.

His tone was like his shoulder, hard and cold as rock. “The gypsies are in the cathedral.”

“Hm.”  _Boring gypsies._  “They'd best not deface it.”

“Esmeralda is in the cathedral.”

“Innocent,” I murmured. “Naive...girl...”

My eyes came down like weights and it seemed as though I went underwater. Before drowning, I heard him say my name again.

“Gringoire...”


	5. Se détendre

After that, I have a vague recollection of various senses. I felt as though I was moving, my feet brushing along the pavement and everyone in the whole world shouting nonsense at me. It also seemed as though someone was holding me, keeping me from falling. It was all a dream, I'm sure, but such a strange dream for one to have...

When I finally woke up later that night, I couldn't tell you what Quasimodo and Esmeralda were doing. I laid there, twirling a lock of hair around my finger and trying to figure out where I was. I noted that Phoebus was at the Cabaret du Val d'Amour and Fleur-de-lys was in her room, wondering what her fiance was doing. Poor girl.

I sat up and saw the Archdeacon at his desk. I realized then that I must have been at the church, in his cell. It reminded me of the many nights long past and I suddenly couldn't move.

He looked up and put his book down. “Rested?”

“What?” I asked. Then I blinked at him.

“You...fell asleep on me.” He shifted a bit in his seat. “Do you feel rested?”

“Oh,” I replied. “Yes, Dom Claude - tell me, how did I get here? At Notre Dame, that is.”

“Please don't trouble yourself with it.” He stood up then. “Well? Aren't you leaving now?”

“Do I have to?” I whined, similar to a child. When it dawned on me what I'd said, and the way I'd said it, I gasped and began to stammer nonsense. He held up a hand and shook his head like the sad, tired parent.

“You can stay if you...” He looked out the window, up at the belltower. “If you promise to keep me from leaving this room.”

I looked down at my lap. “Very well, I promise. But....” I shrugged and glanced over at him. “I'm not particularly tired, though.” Then I stood up. “What do you say we go look at the vaulted ceilings?”

“It's late,” he stated, looking at me over his shoulder. “And besides-"

“The candles will cast lovely shadows,” I interrupted him.

\+ + + **  
**

My face lit up; “Beautiful,” I murmured to myself. Then I sat down on the floor and sprawled out, staring lovingly up at the ceiling and starting to let my mind wander. Dom Claude stared down at my lengthwise body confusedly, bringing me back to reality.

“What are you doing on the floor?” he asked, sounding annoyed.

“I don't want to crane my head back to see it,” I replied. Then I patted the place on the floor next to me. “Why don't you join me? It will be far more comfortable.”

The Archdeacon scrutinized the floor, then leaned his head back to look up at the ceiling. Stiffly, he sat down and laid back.

“You have to relax to get the full effect,” I told him.

“I am relaxed,” he lied.

“No you're not.” I sighed, sitting up and crawling over to him; the priest looked at me cautiously. “You're tense - you're always tense.  _Relax_.”

Dom Claude drew in a breath, then released it. He was irritated with me, I could tell, but he was working very hard to hide it.

“Don't be upset,” I soothed. Then I dared to reach out and grab his head. He jerked away.

“What are you doing now?” he demanded, sitting up.

“I was going to help you relax,” I replied calmly.

“What?" He started to stand. "How...”

I grabbed his arm and smiled up at him. “Just trust me.” I paused and he collapsed to his knees; I lightly tapped my thighs.

The priest regarded me, face completely unreadable. He was considering what seemed a matter of life and death, and I smirked. He huffed, then tensed up even more and bent down, resting his head on my knees. He suddenly appeared very distressed, his face growing steadily the more pink with each passing second.

Slowly, I used a hand to brush my hair out of my face and then slid my hands along his shoulders. He bit his lip and pressed his eyes shut.

“Relax,” I whispered, beginning to knead my fingers into his shoulders. “Just relax.”

“Ow!” he mumbled, clutching the front of his black robes. “That hurts.”

“That's because you aren't _relaxing_ ,” I replied. “Now, open your eyes and look up at the ceiling.” He obeyed. “Clear your mind and just look at it. Here – imagine that there is no heaven.”

“Gringoire-”

“Don't 'Gringoire' me,” I scolded. “Even you can do it.” I pushed down his shoulders - they had come back up where they didn't belong. “No heaven, no hell. Absolutely nothing...”

The priest mumbled something about “unbelievable and preposterous ideas,” but was nevertheless quiet. I ran a hand along his neck, the side of my hand brushing against his jawline, and he let out an agitated breath.

I paused and looked at his cross necklace. “While we're at it, there's no religion either. Just-”

He held up a hand, stopping me from taking the necklace off. “This has gone far enough,” he decided, sitting up; I pushed him back down.

“Why are you uncomfortable?” I asked softly, bending down; he batted my hair out of his face. “Is this too difficult for you? Do you always have to be at war with something?”

“The ideas you are suggesting are ridiculous,” he answered, very curt and to-the-point.

“Maybe they are,” I replied, “but can't you empty your mind for a few moments? _Relax?"_

“It's unrealistic,” he replied. “Really, I ought to have you assassinated for your sacrel-”

“Claude, you are being too overanalytical.” I picked at his cross, pulling it over his head as I spoke. “Now, if not for yours, then for the Lord's sake,  _relax_.”

Claude frowned deeper and looked at the ceiling with an almost bored look. The crisis finally averted, I continued to massage his tense shoulders.

“How do you look at the ceiling and think these things?” he wondered half-interestedly. I smiled at him.

“I don't look at the ceiling and think these things,” I replied, my breath on his face; he blinked a few times. “I don't need to – I'm plenty relaxed already.”

He swallowed and looked at the ceiling, deep in thought. Then: “The ceiling is beautiful.”

“Mm-hm,” I agreed, looking up at it. “There's definitely something architecturally romantic about it.”

“And there is also a sort of pain in the vaults, do you see it?” I nodded and he added, “Like... Like a kiss when your lover is holding a dagger behind their back.”

I remembered seeing the shadow on the wall of the dilapidated hovel and licked my lips, bending back down.

“It doesn't need to be that way,” I muttered. Puzzled, he blinked up at me and I leaned in closer, pressing my lips to his forehead.

Then he pushed his hands up, shoving me away. As I fell backwards, losing my balance, he sat up and wrapped his arms protectively around his body. Shaking now, he looked at me like I was an unpleasant bug; he shook his head and began to weep.

“No, no, no, no...” he mumbled over and over again, banging a fist against his thigh and hiding his face from me with the other hand. “No, not now, not this, no, no...”

“I-”

“Don't say anything!” he shouted, voice a mere squeak. “Ju-ust don't.”

But I couldn't just sit there, mute. “Cla-”

“Go,” he interrupted. I tried again.

“Clau-

“Just  _go!"_

_Stupid mistake,_  I thought, standing up. Keeping my eyes to the ground, I backed up a few steps, but then stopped and asked: “When can I come back?”

That only made him more upset.  _"No!"_ he screamed at me, voice shrill - the sheer warmth of anger in his words was startling. _  
_

I turned away, escaping to the door. _Tomorrow,_  I decided.  _Tomorrow, during the day._

Then I cursed myself for being such an ignorant fool to let myself get carried away that way, making that horrible mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's for M. - they know who they are, and why.


	6. Tous

_Claude was ashamed of himself. Really, how_ dare _he crumble in the front of Gringoire the way he had; emotion was pulsing through him and he suddenly couldn't breathe._  
  
_It had been surprising when Gringoire kissed him. But Claude should have seen it coming, of course; Gringoire falling asleep on him, then asking to stay the night, and then supposedly trying to get Claude to “relax” with that shoulder massage and his pagan talk._  
  
_The worst of it was that Claude's shoulders were feeling significantly better than they had felt in a good long while. Ever since She had come, they'd been pained. Could he have possibly relaxed for a minute? Surely not. Gringoire was right – it was impossible for Claude. He had tried and failed many times before._

 _It had been so soothing lying there, listening to the rhythmic tone of Gringoire's voice, and Claude shuddered when he recalled how content he had been beginning to feel._  
  
_But of course Claude pushed the poet off of him; no way would he participate in more acts of Satan. Even if a small part of him had wanted to reciprocate the kiss. But that would be wrong. Everything about him was wrong now, and he didn't want anything else to happen; God had an extensive list already._ _Thinking about the Hell that awaited him made him feel worse._  
  
_How could he let himself collapse into emotion the way he had? Now he was just a blubbering quiver of emotion, and it was upsetting. All those years of emotional control, and now he was reduced to something so_ embarrassing.

_And then Gringoire wouldn't go - he had to ask when he could come back. As if ever. Claude wouldn't be able to look at him now, not without being reminded of that awful little kiss._

_He was a priest: he needed to keep reminding himself this._  I am a priest.  _He needed to keep reminding himself what this meant._

_It was hard._

_He sat there on the floor, completely undignified. He hoped he was alone. He hadn't been this emotional since he was a child; there had been no tears since he was a baby. Even the nights of torment he had been suffering through for months hadn't left him so weak._

_Somehow, during that paroxysm of tears, he came up with the idea of seeking refuge with Quasimodo, his dear, trusty Quasimodo, the man would do anything for him with the love of a dog. The bell tower could get cold, but Claude found that he wanted the cold of life to return to him._

_He forgot that Esmeralda was in the bell tower._

_Like a ghostly spirit, he pulled himself off the floor; he left the cross necklace, forgetting that Gringoire had removed it. The priest's head burned and throbbed and he stumbled off-balance a minute, but soon managed to regain his composure._

_Somewhat._

_He hid his face in his hands out of shame. With one drunken step after another, he walked, trusting his feet to lead the way. He'd been up to the bell tower plenty enough - surely he wouldn't be required to divert his attention from scraping back his control._

_Halfway up the staircase, Claude stumbled, and it released a new wave of weeping. He needed to get control of himself; he paused, sitting down on the steps until the vertigo subsided. His entire body shook._

How could Gringoire do that? _he wondered._ Has he always wanted to...to... _He couldn't even think about it anymore. It would be best to forget that the whole incident ever occurred. Doing so would be difficult, but he had no choice but to try._ Hopefully Pierre-

 _He jerked and his gaze fell to a crack on the wall._ Where did that come from? _Gringoire. Gringoire was Gringoire. First he had been Maître Pierre, then, as the boy got older and became a man, it was Gringoire. Formal. Always formal, even despite their friendship._

 _The friendship complicated things. Claude tried thinking about the current situation like it was some sort of scientific problem, with the hypothesis and conclusion and whatnot, but he found it impossible. Life should have been facts and definite truth, like Science and Religion, those only two mistresses he'd ever allowed himself to have...the only mistresses he_ could _have..._

_Emotions were foreign and that made them they frightened him. All foreign things frightened him - how could Gringoire have friendly acquaintances with some of the refugees? Simply thinking about being within six feet of the strangers made his skin crawl. He shuddered just thinking about them and their pagan thoughts and their disgusting, dirty habits..._

_And yet he let them stay in the cathedral. Why did he do that? What was happening to him? His life was suspended on a rickety plank over the great abyss of Hell, and there was no one to save him. The gypsy just looked down on him and laughed and laughed and_ laughed.

_Claude regained his control for a moment. He brushed away the tears and other unwanted filth from his face and stood up; he was more careful with his steps._

_“Quasimodo?” he croaked when he reached the bell tower. Claude looked around for his ward: no one. “Quasimodo, come here.”_

_It was so easy to hide. But some emotion was breaking through his defenses._ You must regain indefinite control. _Control was the key. The priest drew in a breath and walked further into the bell tower._

_“Quasimodo, come here,” he ordered. Then he felt the bile of panic rise up in his throat. “Quasimodo!”_

_“You!”_

_Claude turned to the voice and felt that horrible feeling again, that feeling that had haunted him for months, ever since that first time he had seen Her. A fire pulsed through him, followed promptly by the desire. Fear. Disgust. Heart throbbing in his ears, he studied every feature, every perfection, wondering what it would be like if the girl loved him the way he loved Her._

_But he didn't love Her. He didn't! Did! Didn't? He had been convinced he did, and had been prepared to follow her back to the pit, but now he felt different, somehow._ Too many questions. _He didn't know._

_“Get away from me!” Esmeralda cried, holding out a hand and backing away. “Go away!”_

_They were alone - Claude's head began to pound and he could hardly breathe. The desire to touch her was so strong...his prayers could be answered..._

_“Where is Quasimodo?” he asked, voice horse. Then he took a single step forward._

_“I said to stay away!” The girl pressed herself against the wall. It would be so easy to trap her. Claude groaned and dug his fingers into his robes._ Control, control...

_“Quasimodo,” he repeated. “I need Quasimodo.”_

_“Monster! Assassin! You're the one who stabbed my Phoebus!” Esmeralda wasn't paying any attention to Claude; it annoyed him, almost. “I'll scream, do you hear me? Quasimodo gave me a whistle, and I'll blow it unless you go.” There was something shiny in her fair, delicate hand now._

_“I don't...Quasi...”_

_Claude moaned and pressed his fingertips to his temple. His head hurt so much, he could hardly stand. Thinking was horrid. He just wanted it to go away; everything needed to go away and leave him. Now he wanted to die. Death would be a relief, wouldn't it? Before the Hell, it would be a relief, wouldn't it?_

_A sharp noise pierced the air and he let out a scream, begging for it to stop, but it only got louder. He sank to his knees, sobbing._

_“Make it stop!" he pleaded. "By God, make it stop, please!”  
  
Finally – _ praise the Lord _– the infernal noise stopped, but Claude couldn't bring himself to rejoin the world. He stayed on the dirty bell tower floor, shaking with tears._  
  
_“He was going to hurt me the same way he hurt my Phoebus, Quasimodo! He had the gleam in his eyes, why won't you listen?”_  
  
_“Master?”_

_Someone touched him. Hugged him. Instead of feeling repulsed, Claude was comforted; he raised his head, Gringoire's name dancing on his lips._

_However, instead of the soft, graceful features of the poet with his horribly long hair – Claude couldn't imagine Gringoire without that atrocious hairstyle – he just saw Quasimodo. The hideous sight was upsetting and the priest looked back down at the ground._

_“Master?” the hunchback repeated. “What's wrong?”  
  
“Everything,” Claude whispered with a shake of the head. “Everything's wrong.”_


	7. "Je t'aime"

So warm.  _The heat was overwhelming Claude and he moaned, trying to open his eyes. The heat was horrible – he hated the heat. “Cold,” he muttered; he missed the cold. “Cold...”  
  
He became even hotter. The priest finally jerked his eyes open and found that he was lying down on Quasimodo's pallet, drowning in blankets. The hunchback looked down at him, concerned.  
  
“Bah!” Claude cried, pushing away the blankets. Then he prepared the stand up; he needed to think about what had happened with Gringoire, and everything else, but Quasimodo kept him down.  
  
“Let me go,” Claude demanded, feeling his head start to spin. “I feel fine. Let me go.”  
  
“You were crying,” Quasimodo said. The priest flushed crimson and a heavy weight began to bang itself against his head.  
  
“It was nothing,” he hastily replied.  
  
“You never cry,” continued the hunchback. “Or laugh... Smile, even.” With his one eye, he scrutinized Claude. “Something happened.”  
  
Claude had done a good job at educating Quasimodo - and Gringoire. Perhaps he had been too good. Maybe it would have been better to have not pitied the two dregs of society.  
  
Even he couldn't think of that.  
  
“It was nothing,” Claude repeated. “A minor misunderstanding I overreacted to. Now, please let me go, Quasimodo.”  
  
“Master,” the bell-ringer began, getting down on his misshapen knees next to the bed. He clasped his hands as if in prayer and looked up at the priest. “Please tell me; I promise I won't tell a soul.”  
  
“Where's Esmeralda?”  
  
It was Quasimodo's turn to be defensive. “Why?”  
  
“I just want to know that the witch isn't nearby," Claude spat, "preparing her newest curse.”  
  
“She isn't a witch,” Quasimodo explained gently. “But of course you won't listen to me.” He reached over and grabbed Claude's hand; despite the priest's struggles, he wouldn't let go. “Esmeralda went to visit the other refugees - I sent her there so we could be alone. Now please tell me.”  
  
“There's nothing to tell.”  
  
“Please, Master-”  
  
“Nothing-”  
  
“Father,” Quasimodo begged, “please.”  
  
Something happened in Claude's chest, something he wasn't accustomed to. There was a slight pang, but nothing that hurt or was uncomfortable, it was just..._ odd. _He longed for something, but he didn't know what it was._  
  
_Claude looked at the wall; the hunchback squeezed his hand and the priest felt a tear roll down his face._  
  
_“Pierre,” he said. “The poet.” Something was wrong with Claude. He was explaining what happened? How? What had happened to him?_  
  
_“Last night, we argued. It ended...horribly...” Claude remembered the screaming and the shaking and he felt so ashamed. “I went to find him today. He forgave me. Then...” The Archdeacon trailed off; he really didn't want to discuss this with Quasimodo, or anyone. Whenever he was upset, he would read, and the beautiful certainty of science and logic always dissipated the unwanted emotion. But he was too tired to read. Reading had never been relaxing since he saw Her, regardless. Claude wished he was in his cell, finally alone, sleeping. Really sleeping. The deep sleep he used to get, before Her. Sleep._  
  
_Quasimodo squeezed his hand again. It was comforting, oddly enough._  
  
_“He fell asleep,” Claude mumbled, staring blankly at the wall as he recalled the poet's warm body pressed lovingly against his own. “I walked him back here, and he wanted to stay the night, like...like he did when he was younger. Do you remember that, Quasimodo?”_  
  
_“Yes, Father.”_

_“I let him stay,” the priest continued. He slowly retracted his hands from Quasimodo's and hugged_ _himself, then rocked back and forth slowly. “We went to look at the vaulted ceiling. He...”_ Don't tell him. _“He...”_ Quasimodo won't understand. _“Pierre...”_ Gringoire. Gringoire, Gringoire, Gringoire.

_Claude began to pull harshly at his robes, watching as his control slid back down to Hell. “Don't, don't, don't,” he whispered to himself._

_“Father-”_

_“No!” Claude croaked._

_“Father, please-”_

_“He kissed me, all right, now just leave me alone!”_

Of all the embarrassments... _Claude blinked so as to clear his eyes a little, then pulled his arms over his head, like he had earlier, with Gringoire-_

Stop it.

_Quasimodo didn't say anything, which was eerie and ominous to Claude. The priest cried softly to himself, wishing he was alone. It was better to be alone; no one could hurt you except yourself._

_“Father,” Quasimodo began._

_“I am not your father,” Claude mumbled. “I explained that to you years ago.”_

_“You're all I have as a father, sir,” the hunchback responded. “And you know I love you.”_

_Claude grunted, looking intently at the lines of his hands. Gypsies believed that your destinies were written in your hands; if that was true, then what was his destiny? Who was in it? Esmeralda, Quasimodo...Gringoire? He didn't want his life to be laid out that way. He wished it was a blank slate that he himself would write. Claude traced his fate line._

_Suddenly, he remembered 'anarkia' and felt ill. When Gringoire had shown the etching to him, Claude had felt a horrible chill wash over him as he recalled the meaning._ “Death destiny.” _He had been so disturbed by the meaning, and what it could mean, what it could signify, that he had lied to Gringoire about what it really meant._

Gringoire... _Gringoire had said, using that strange gift of his, that Claude had done “something right” because he knew "nothing". The poet was really quite terrible at lying, so he must have been telling the truth. Claude was pleased with that emptiness, but it was also frightening, in a way._

So confusing, _he thought, running his fingers along his scalp._ Why can't things make sense anymore?

_“Monsieur Gringoire was always good for you,” Quasimodo said quietly. “He brought out the best of you.”_

_“It's wrong,” Claude muttered. “A crime not only against God, but nature.”_

_“Did you return it?”_

_“What?” Claude dared to look at Quasimodo._

_“Did you kiss back?”_

_The priest turned a very bright shade of red and quickly turned back into himself, trying desperately to make himself even smaller than before._

_“No,” he squeaked, “of course not. It wasn't on the lips; either way, I wouldn't have! I pushed him away. It's wrong. Yes, wrong, God forbids it-”_

_“If He didn't, would you have?”_

_“Quasimodo!” Claude wailed._

_“Would you?” Quasimodo grabbed the priest by the shoulder and tried to turn him; however, not even the strongest man can yank someone so emotionally anchored from their rooted position.  
  
“No!” Claude stated. “Absolutely not. No, no, no. Never. It's wrong, and I would never. Pierre – _ Gringoire _needs to learn boundaries. Better yet, when he comes to see me tomorrow – because I know he'll stop by, he always seems drawn to me when he does idiotic things like this – I will turn him away. For forever. I don't want to see him again. Never, never. Never.” For good measure, he added one last “never” and then, satisfied, released a breath._  
  
_Despite all the denial, Quasimodo wasn't convinced. “It's all right, Father, don't be upset. No matter what, I love you.”_  
  
_Claude felt a great lump rise in his throat. Then Quasimodo stood up and placed a hand on his back, and it was too much for the priest; he began to shake._  
  
_“I love you,” Claude repeated, choking on the phrase. The words were so strange on his tongue, and he continued to repeat the phrase a few times until it began to roll off better. But it still felt clunky and alien._  
  
_Quasimodo leaned over, kissing Claude on the cheek. Claude didn't react, negatively or otherwise; he simply sat there, staring straight ahead like a poor broken doll. Quasimodo smoothed the priest's robes._  
  
_“You can stay,” the bell-ringer offered. Claude nodded slowly and leaned back onto the pallet._  
  
_He needed to think._  
  
_But, instead, he closed his eyes._


	8. Le contrôle

“Mademoiselle de Gondelaurier will see you now.”

I'm not really sure what sparked me to forcefully change things for the girl. Perhaps it was because I remembered that Phoebus was doing everything he could to see Esmeralda hung, at Fleur-de-lys's insistence. I owed Esmeralda a debt, that was sure enough.

The de Gondelaurier mansion was right across the way from the cathedral, regardless.

Fleur-de-lys sat at a little table, hunched over some sewing. Her face was compressed in concentration and annoyance. When she saw me, she released a pent-up breath and set the sewing aside, relieved for the escape.

The mademoiselle was pretty enough, I suppose - she was short, with wavy dirty blonde hair. She was also visibly flawed, with a large mole on her neck and a somewhat wide, overly-curvy body, and the flaws seemed to bring out the attractive parts of her. Still, she would be much, much prettier if she straightened up a bit, improved her posture and whatnot.

“Why do you want to see me?” she asked politely. She was disgusted by my presence, though, as all aristocrats seem to get in the company of peasants.

“It's something very important,” I explained. “You have to promise to listen to me completely.”

“I promise nothing.” She paused. “Go on. Speak.”

“It is about your husband-to-be,” I began.

“Phoebus?” Fleur-de-lys interrupted. “What about him?”

“He doesn't love you.”

A woman angered is a woman feared, even one as young as Mademoiselle de Gondelaurier. She stood up, furious.

“How dare you suggest something like that!” she spat. “Get out!”

I took a deep breath. “Please, listen-”

“He does love me,” she protested. “He does. He promised to hang her.” She was speaking more to herself now.

“Mademoiselle,” I began, stepping over to her. The young lady wouldn't let me sit her down, instead swatting my hand away and choosing to do it herself. “Mademoiselle, he does not love you. He is going to marry you for your money.”  _And your purity._  “No more, no less.”

“He  _promised_ ,” she repeated. “And how do you know this, anyway?”

“Mademoiselle," I replied quickly, "you have to trust me.” Simply being minutely reminded that I had the priest about my curse – misinterpreted blessing? whichever – was making my head ache; I had no desire to repeat the experience.

“How do you know this?” she demanded. Then she shook her head. “Oh, never mind. You're lying, anyway, I know you are.”

“Don't you wonder where Phoebus is when he promised to be with you?” I asked. “Like now, even.”

“He is a very busy man.” The response seemed automatic. “He's probably atop his noble steed right now, enforcing the peace and locking up nosy busybodies like  _you_. Now get out!”

“Mademoiselle, Captain Phoebus is at a bar, drinking heavily with his arms slung around a lewd woman's waist.” Why wouldn't she just listen? Really, it seemed like everyone in Paris had problems with listening all of a sudden.

“N-no,” she stammered. “No, you are lying, I know you are." She made a face. "Stop it. Get out.”

“He's at the Pomme d'Eve on the street of St. Denis," I said, walking over to the door; "and that is located on the city outskirts.” I put my hand on the doorknob and looked back at her. “Perhaps you could send a servant to go look for him?”

“Go,” she whispered, seemingly distracted. I nodded at her and left the room, then was promptly escorted to the front door. There, I was almost literally kicked out.

I glanced behind me as the door shut and rolled my eyes at it. "Classist prats." Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the cathedral and whirled to face it.

I craned my neck back and looked at it a moment, then sighed reluctantly. _Time to receive the sermon_.


	9. Le danger des sources partiales

The cathedral was unusually full when I arrived, absolutely swarming with refugees. The crowds were almost suffocating, but what was absolutely _horrifying_ was the fact that a few were treating everything so  _roughly!_ They were going to destroy the lovely architecture that way! They needed to stop it!

I cringed and turned away; all I needed to do was find the priest, cretins be damned. Telling myself this, I hurried away from the vandals. But I was stopped when I unexpectedly bumped into a pretty redheaded girl.

"Esmeralda!" I exclaimed.

It was the first time I had seen my wife since she had been arrested the month before; she smiled at me.

"Well, if it isn't the prince of Paris's streets." She smiled softly at me. "Hello, Pierre Gringoire.

It was only polite to engage in a conversation. Then, when all the appropriate formalities were squared away: “Do you know where the Archdeacon is?”

The girl gasped and shook her head. “No, thank God!" She shuddered. "I hope I never see that man again.”

“Why, my muse?”

“Gringoire, he tried to attack me last night!” Esmeralda cried. 

“What?” I breathed, my mind a sudden blank. Then words and phrases flooded my brain and it seemed like I was going to topple over from the sheer multitude of them.  _What have I done, what have I done? I got him upset, and he-_

“He came up to the bell tower,” she explained, “asking for Quasimodo.” The gitana snorted. “He had the gleam of evil in his eyes.” 

“Did he...?” I trailed of and grabbed the girl's hands.

“No,” she replied, pulling her hands away; “Quasimodo came in time. Gringoire, you look pale.”

“I... I have to go.”


	10. Pendant ce temps, avec Claude...

Where is he? _Claude wondered. His armada was rebuilt enough so that he could go talk to the poet without losing himself again, but where was Pierre Gringoire?  
  
Claude took a deep breath; perhaps the poet didn't know that he had sought refuge in the bell tower. That made sense - Claude decided to go down to the lower levels of the church and find Gringoire and then tell him that he was willing to forget that the night before had ever occurred if Gringoire promised not to do something like...like _that _again. Yes, that's what he would do._

_Claude stood up. Then, quietly, he tied on his belt and muttered a quick prayer, asking the Lord for strength._

_Downstairs, those horrible vagrants were swarming around, vandalizing the church. He chastised a few of them, but was really too distracted to give them a proper scolding._

Where is Pierre Gringoire?

_Then he saw him; Gringoire was hurrying out of the church, that tattered old coat billowing behind him in his haste._

_“Gringoire!” Claude called. The poet either didn't hear or simply ignored him. Claude frowned and shouted louder: “Pierre Gringoire!”_

_But Gringoire just ran out of the church, not even looking back._

_Claude stood there, too frozen and numb to move._

_“Come back,” he whispered. “Now.” His head felt heavy and he reached out for something to lean against. However, there was nothing and he lost his balance; he didn't bother to get up, instead choosing to just sit there. He could barely breathe, certainly not think–_ No. _He was not going to allow himself to crumble again, not with everyone around, beginning to circle him... Somewhere, the witch was watching...no..._ Control. Get control of your life.

_“Dammit, control,” he muttered, hiding his face. He seemed to hear people laughing all around, at him, and he wanted to scream or run or maybe even just kill everyone, then himself._

_“Father, it's all right,” Quasimodo said somewhere._

_“Quasimodo,” Claude sobbed, begging himself to stop and go back to the way he had been last summer, before everything got so complicated. Begging for himself to become strong again._

_"Get away!" someone roared. Claude looked up and saw Quasimodo chasing the vagabonds away from him; the priest wept._

I do not deserve either of them _, he thought._ Not Pierre, and certainly not Quasimodo. I don't deserve anyone.

_He hated himself._


	11. Comment pourrions-nous ?

How could he? Of all the things to do, how could he do _that?_  And to think that I had been looking forward to sitting down and hearing his inevitable lecture! _Sickening!_ How could he?

And how could  _I_  have loved such a monster? To try to attack an innocent young girl...“she is a witch, Monsieur Gringoire”...the idea was deplorable! How could he? How could I?

~~I lov~~

~~How~~

~~And I kissed hi~~

I reassured to myself to the fact that - at the very least - Fleur-de-lys made the proper decision. I was free. The curse- _M_ _isinterpreted blessing?_  

It was lifted.

But what did it matter? If I'd known what he was going to do, I could have stopped him. Saved both of them from his

 

 

I don't care to write anymore.


	12. Le prêtre et le monstre

_“Quasimodo, what's going on?”  
  
Claude pulled the blankets over his head. “No,” he muttered, shaking - he would not let Her see him like this._ Never. _Then all of his nightmares came flashing back to him, sharp and vibrant, and he gasped, sinking his teeth into the pillow._

Go away.

_“I can't say,” Quasimodo replied, “and you really should leave now.”_

_“But I thought I was allowed to be up here,” the girl stated; “you told me that your house was my house, and now you're sending me away?”  
  
“He...needs the space more than you do.”  
  
Claude rolled off the pallet, and the blankets got yanked down with him. He landed with a thud on the floor and hugged himself. Then he looked at the bed like it was on fire. _She's slept there. _He had an urge to get back under the blankets and let his imagination get the best of him, but he also felt sick at the idea.  
  
“How could _he _need it more than_ me?” _the gypsy asked. “He's a priest, doesn't he have his own room?”_  
  
“Esmeralda, please just go.”  
  
“No, Quasimodo," she said, "I want an answer: why are you sheltering that monster?”

Monster. _Claude tossed the word around in his head - it fit remarkably well, quite comfortably on his tall form._

_“He is not a monster,” the hunchback argued._

_“But he is, Quasimodo! He stabbed my Phoebus, and he was going to hurt me last night, you know he was.”_

_“No,” Quasimodo protested. “He wouldn't have. He couldn't have.”_

_“Gringoire listened to me, why won't you?”_

_“Gringoire?” Claude gasped, looking up at the doorway._

_“Monsieur Gringoire?" Quasimodo repeated._

_"Yes, my husband," Esmeralda stated; "he was asking about the priest, and I told him what happened, that_ _the monster tried to hurt me and that you came in time to save me.”_

_Claude's head began to swim. He groaned and bowed his head to his knees, trying to focus._

_“You need to leave, Esmeralda,” he vaguely heard Quasimodo say. “Now.”_

_A wave of nausea hit Claude when he realized._ So he thinks I attacked her. _He pursed his lips._ Perhaps I would have. _The priest moaned and shivered.  
  
“Fine,” Esmeralda replied. Claude vaguely heard footsteps and creaking wood, but he was too busy trying to think.  
  
“Father, you need to stop acting like this.”  
  
Claude felt someone grab him and pull him off the floor. “Let go!” he shrieked. He saw _that pallet _get closer. “Get it away from me! Quasimodo, no!” He grabbed his foster son's shirt and shook him. “Don't put me there! She'll come back and...and...” He crumpled, not even bothering to make an effort to get himself put back together._  
  
Quasimodo set him down on the cool wood floor. Claude looked at the knots of wood and watched as water fell from his face and made a disgusting, small pool.

_“I am a monster,” he said quietly.  
  
“No you aren't.”  
  
“Yes, I am, Quasimodo.” Claude looked up at him. “My sins have added up to this.” He looked down at himself and slumped forward. “Maybe I should just kill myself. One more sin won't make any difference.”  
  
“Don't talk like that." Quasimodo put a hand on Claude's shoulder; the touch disturbed the Archdeacon and he pushed it away. "_ _You're scaring me.”_

_“I don't know who I am anymore, Quasimodo." Claude swallowed. "What I am.”_  
  
“That's no reason to talk about self-murder.”  
  
“He thinks I did something to her. He wouldn't even come see what I had to say.”  
  
“Go explain it to him,” Quasimodo encouraged. “Monsieur Gringoire is a reasonable man, he'll listen.”

_But Claude shook his head. “He won't listen - he ignored me.” Claude closed his eyes._

_He suddenly wondered:_ what am I? _Was he a priest? Scholar? Scientist? Those things didn't make sense to him anymore - nothing made sense anymore._

_There was a deep silence. Then Quasimodo offered, “I can send the sheets down to be washed.” Another tear dropped onto the floor and Quasimodo began to pull the bedclothes off._

_“You are too good to me, Quasimodo," Claude sobbed. "All those years I treated you like...like...like filth, and now you're being so understanding. Why, Quasimodo,_  why?”

_“I told you last night.” Claude blinked at him and Quasimodo backed over to the door. “I'll leave you alone now.” He began to step out._

_“Wait,” Claude croaked. He found he didn't want to be alone then..._ for once...

_But Quasimodo was already gone._


	13. Pour combattre les démons intérieurs

_Quasimodo did get the sheets washed, and this was something that Claude was strangely thankful for. However, it was still hard to sleep when he thought about the previous occupant of the bed. He tossed and turned, feeling hot hands caress him in places where they very well shouldn't have, and it was enough to make him mad. He bit the pillow to keep from screaming and waking up Quasimodo – yes, Quasimodo knew about the lust, but Claude didn't want to bring attention to it. He wanted to act like it wasn't there and maybe it'd go away._  
  
_Claude had begun to find that, in the past year, the mornings after nights had become a relief: when he felt the sun rise, he almost felt joy, but mostly relief. True, his carnal desires attacked during the day, but they weren't nearly as merciless as they were at night._  
  
_Meanwhile, he put Pierre Gringoire out of his mind, choosing to focus on other things, for, you see, whenever the Archdeacon's mind tortured him enough to think of the poet, he felt so alone, and it upset him even more._

_He also stayed in the bell tower; Quasimodo told the other priests that the Archdeacon was ill. In truth, Claude was indeed sick, but not with a malady that would give him such an open amount of time to recuperate._

_The bell tower was peaceful, save for when Quasimodo rang his bells. Hardly no one came up there. Now and then, a priest or two would come up and tell the hunchback to ring the bells for some funeral or wedding of some sort, but that was the bulk of human interference. There was a sanctuary cell, but Claude was occupying it – the refugees would have to make do._

_Being reminded of the foreign presence made him feel disgusted and even a bit frightened, so Claude also tried to put them out of his mind. It was hard not to be reminded of the pagans, though, because they were very loud and sometimes could be heard even way up in the bell tower. It made Claude wonder if the other priests were doing anything to keep the peace of Notre Dame, but he decided that he could care less about the Church._

_He wondered if he'd always been so apathetic._

_One night, the carnal delirium was to such a degree that Claude didn't even try to sleep. He got out of bed and walked out onto the balcony; he looked down at all the little people, those few lights lit in the dark, inky blackness. The thought crossed his mind that maybe, perhaps, Gringoire was seated by one of those lights, scribbling away something or other._

_Claude looked away.  
  
Suddenly, he was suffocated – alone, but suffocated. She had Her lips to his ear, his neck, like some horrible vampire, and he could barely breathe, think._  Oh God.  
  
_“Go away,” he whispered weakly. The witch ignored him, instead choosing to attack harder. She put Her hand between his legs, on his inner thigh, and pressed Herself against him. Claude wished he could see Her, but he was completely alone, and he knew She was just his imagination._  
  
_“I don't want you.”_  
  
_She laughed, laughed like the demon She was. Claude squeezed his eyes shut and pulled at his hair._

_“Just go away!” he begged. “God, please, just go away!”_

_He pushed nothing away and ran, and the girl followed him, Her skirts rustling in the night; She laughed._

_Claude lost the girl, left Her behind on the balcony. Now exhausted, he collapsed. Then, slowly, he looked up and there it was, etched in stone so it could always haunt him. His gaze brushed along each letter, following their crooked path, the sharp certainty of each harsh angle and every uneven line._

Anarkia _._

_He broke out into a sweat.  
  
“What did I ever do to deserve this?” he moaned, standing up; he backed away, then stopped. He looked at the word. “Why are you doing this to me? Why, _ why?”

_He uneasily stepped over to the wall. Hand shaking, he reached out and brushed his fingertips along the letters. “I was a good man, a better priest, and this is my reward? That-that-that sorceress an-and_ this?”

_He felt his face go wet._

_Claude let himself cry._


	14. Deux deniers parisis

I began to mutter to myself. "Two...” I pushed the counted coin away. “Three...four. Four deniers parisis.” It was a decent enough sum of money, that was for certain.

I suddenly smelt the gorgeous scent of freshly-made bread and looked up; there was a vendor setting up shop across the road. I glanced down at the coins in my hand, then stood up and put them in my purse. A small bit of bread wouldn't hurt, and I was definitely hungry enough for some.

The bread was eaten too quickly and night fell too soon. Without further ado, I tightened my grip on my purse went over to the street of St. Denis, going to the lit candles of the brothel like a sailor towards his lodestar.

In truth, I felt as though I'd lost my lodestar. Since I had learned what the priest had tried to do to Esmeralda, it seemed like my life had become a never-ending cycle: feel depressed, sell sonnet(s), get money, go to Val d'Amour, feel happy. However, then, it only took a day or two before something reminded me of _him_  and then everything started all over again.

I knew perfectly well that I needed to change things, but I'd unfortunately loved the man for years - love like that does not disappear easily. With my lodestar blocked by night, I was left alone in a terrible, neverending storm.

I went inside Val d'Amour and was quickly given what I needed when I revealed my two deniers parisis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how French money works. If anyone knows if I made a mistake, I would love to hear from them.


	15. À mourir de la main de l'un

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ATTEMPTED SUICIDE TW

_When Quasimodo found Claude the next morning, the priest was sitting on the ground with his arms resting on his knees, frozen; he looked up at anarkia. He had been like that for hours, having lost track of the time as he pondered over so many inevitabilities._  
  
_“Father, are you all right?” Quasimodo put his hand on Claude's shoulder and Claude jerked, looking up at the hunchback in surprise._  
  
_“Quasimodo,” he said. “What are you doing here?”_  
  
_“It's morning,” Quasimodo explained, “but I couldn't find you.”_  
  
_“I... I needed to think.”_  
  
_Quasimodo looked at anarkia, but, not knowing Greek, didn't acknowledge the meaning, nor why it was so important. The hunchback helped Claude up and they walked along the balcony._

_They were quiet. Claude was distracted in the ocean of his own mind, looking straight ahead as he walked like someone possessed, with only one foot in front of the other, no care for if he went somewhere, fell, or anything._  
  
_He eventually murmured, lost in thought: “The end is coming, Quasimodo.” The huncback stopped walking and looked at Claude in concern._  
  
_“Soon the end will come," the priest continued, "and the girl will win.” He rested against the balustrade and looked out at the sea of buildings. “It's inevitable, Quasimodo. Why do I try fight it anymore?” He looked up at the sky._  
  
_Then Claude closed his eyes and began to lean forward. Quasimodo reached out to him and grabbed his arm, jerking him away from the balustrade and throwing him into a gargoyle. The stone hurt to crash into Claude narrowed his eyes at Quasimodo, rubbing the shoulder that had received the most pain and muttering curses under his breath._  
  
_“What was that for?” he snapped._  
  
_“You were going to jump,” Quasimodo replied; then he looked down the Place du Parvis._  
  
_“No I wasn't, what makes you think that?” Claude was furious now, angry. He was angry at Quasimodo for acting like he was a naive, idiotic child, angry at Pierre for running away without listening, angry at Esmeralda for simply existing, and he was angry at himself, though he didn't know why._

_“Let's go inside,” Quasimodo suggested softly. But then Claude interrupted the hunchback before he could continue._

_“No, I don't want to go inside!” Claude pulled himself from the gargoyle and began to back away. “Now just go, you...you...oh, you damn monster!” Claude pointed off in some random direction. “Go on, get away!”  
  
But Quasimodo didn't go. He just stood there, and it made Claude even more upset. He wasn't in control, what could he do? He stormed over to Quasimodo and grabbed his sleeve, hissing.  
  
“I said go!” Claude tried to rip the cloth, anything to stop feeling so pathetic and worthless. “Why won't you listen? Go!” _ He's just standing there, is he deaf all of a sudden? _“You aren't listening! Go! Now!”_

_But Quasimodo didn't move, and it bothered Claude so much, but-but he didn't know why._

_“Go!” he shouted. He collapsed to his knees, shaking Quasimodo feebly. His face, already an unnatural pallor, was now a deathly, pale paper white, a sort of color that made him look older, perhaps evil._  
  
_“G-Go,” he stuttered. “Listen to me and go.”_  
  
_His face went wet and he let go of Quasimodo, hiding his face._  
  
_“Go.”_  
  
_No one would listen to him. He just wanted someone to listen to him, to know and to tell him why he suddenly couldn't get control of himself. He wanted them to give the control back to him. When had things started to be so hard? He had been sure it was the moment Gringorie kissed him, or those refugees entered Paris, or even when he first saw Esmeralda last summer, but it seemed like his life had been shaky for years. But things had been controlled before. How could things have been a sea of confusion if he had been in control of everything?_

_“Listen to me," he said, "and go.”_

_Quasimodo got down on his knees and replied, “Talk to me – I'll listen. Come on, Father, you did the night before last. Didn't you feel better after you'd told me about Monsieur Gringoire?”  
  
Claude didn't care to admit it, but he _ had _felt less oppressed after talking to Quasimodo. But he didn't want to talk. If someone knew how he felt, he was vulnerable. Emotions made you vulnerable. Someone could easily hurt him now, with him in that state._ Vulnerable.

_However, if Quasimodo would go, Claude might say something._

_“You'll go?” he asked quietly._

_“If you talk to me and let me trust you with yourself.” Quasimodo's next words were very quiet and solemn. “I don't want you to jump.”_

_They were quiet for the longest time - Claude watched a flock of birds cross the sky, and then saw that there was a single bird tailing along after the others. The bird was obviously lost, but far too proud to show it. Claude looked back to the city._

_“What do I say?” he whispered._

_“Tell me what's on your mind.”  
  
“But there's so much, Quasimodo, where do I begin?”  
  
“Wherever you want.”  
  
Claude picked at the folds of his robes, suddenly realizing that his cross necklace was missing. _ Where- _He remembered that Gringoire had taken it off._

Things have been hard since before he did that. _Claude looked up and blankly stared at the cathedral's turrets, trying to pinpoint the exact time he had first felt alone.  
  
He swallowed. __They weren't there."_


	16. L'innocence de la jeunesse

_The Frollos were a singularity of their time, in that rare position of upper middle class or lower aristocracy. Claude was born to Acelin and Marthe Frollo – however, he had no memory of them, nor could he bring faces to his mind when he thought of them, which was scarcely often._

_It was Acelin and Marthe who had decided that Claude would give himself to God._  
  
_The only paternal figures Claude could barely even think of as being his guardians were the teachers he had had at the Collége de Torchi in the University, and that was only because they were the adults he had watched and learned from when he was a child. When he was very, very young – Claude had forgotten quite how young he had been – he was thrust into the monastic seclusion of the Collége. He grew up with religion in a very cloistered, empty childhood._  
  
_Sometimes, when he was alone in his room, Claude would look out and wonder what was beyond the walls of the Collége. He often heard some other young children playing and being loud and obnoxious. He never wanted to play with them, of course, far better preferring the idea to remain inside and read._

_But he still wondered. He wondered about the world outside._

_He also wondered about his parents; he missed them, as any child would. They paid for his education and kept him clothed, fed, but they never so much as once stopped by the Collége for a visit. Claude realized later on in life that they couldn't have visited even if they had wanted to, because of certain rules...but he also realized that they hadn't even wanted to visit. All the other students received letters and little treats and whatnot from “home”. They spoke of “home” so fondly._

_Claude never got anything. To a child, this meant that he had no such “home,” evidently._

_Whenever talk drifted to reminiscing, Claude had even better reason to escape the unwanted social interaction. He avoided the other boys at all cost, choosing to keep to himself. Whenever the agony came that he was thrust into a social situation, it was very awkward for all parties involved._

_When he had no choice but to be privy to the conversations, he never offered a single word, instead choosing to sit and stare straight ahead at the closest architectural feat he saw, or, if he was fortunate enough to have a book, read until it was all over._

_The other students would talk and issue forth happy sounds from their throats, smiling – laughter. Claude realized soon enough that it was laughter. It confused him. They were talking about “home” and laughing? Shouldn't they be sad that they were away from “home”?_

_They always spoke of “home” so fondly, sometimes a more reasonable sadly, but Claude had never understood why. “Home” was really just a place, a house you lived in. “Home” was nothing, yet the other boys seemed so fond of what was little more than worthless emotional value for a patch of land, some people who had abandoned them at the Collége, and a house. It was nothing, in essence._

_Claude was always glad to be free of such talk._

_He learned easily and quickly, and eventually overtook the other boys – thank God. Still, the older children were just as outrageously dull and single-minded, only a little bit more mature. He didn't tell anyone, but at that young age, he often wondered if the _C_ ollége was Hell, and this made him wonder what sins he had committed in life to deserve the torture._

_When Claude was ten, he was learning with people up to six years older than him, and he was far ahead of them. Everyone ignored him and this suited Claude perfectly well, thank you very much._

_Except._

_There was one student Claude actually wished would notice him a little bit more than he did._

_This student's name was Jérôme, and he had fascinated Claude. The other students had acted as though Claude was worthy of the plague, and thus deserved to be avoided at all costs, but not Jérôme. Jérôme actually said that Claude was a great kid and sometimes asked for help on the homework if he was having trouble with it. Claude loved it when _Jérôme gave him_ some of his time and precious attention._

_Jérôme was seventeen or so – Claude had never actually found out how old he was. He was tall, with a somewhat audacious figure and high-arched eyebrows. His voice was like velvet. But it was his lips that Claude had found the most attractive: round and full, with a reddish tint and vague shininess._

_Claude was young. He hadn't yet been taught about the sins of homosexuality, so he fell blindly for this Jérôme without a care or worry in the world. He made an effort to always be around Jérôme so he could watch those lips, here that voice, just be there._

_But Claude quickly discovered the error in his ways; the older boys had prattles, same as the young ones, but these prattles were about “women”._

_Claude had been very confused about the concept of another sex at first, having grown up entirely with men and boys in a secluded environment. Surely the whole world was like that, all the same. After all, he felt attracted towards Jérôme, did he not..._

_However, he soon realized how idiotic he had been – of course there was another sex. Who else would bear the children, thus continuing Life when everyone died? Men certainly weren't granted such skills._

_But Claude became confused. Man was supposed to love and join with a woman... Jérôme certainly wasn't a woman. And Claude was certain he wasn't either._

_He began to worry about his feelings for the other boy and, n_ _ervous and anxious, went and asked the University priest about same-sex attractions – not letting on that he had them, of course, just in case they were scorned._

_His concerns were justified. The priest had gotten very serious and pulled out a thick book, pointing and asking Claude to read the Leviticus 20:13. The child had peeked under the priest's arm and squinted at the excerpt in question._

“If a man lies with a male as with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination; they shall surely be put to death; their blood is upon them.”

_Claude had been petrified and had prayed to the Lord for forgiveness, saying he had never done anything._ Kyrie eleison, peccavi.

_Come sixteen, when Jérôme was merely an unpleasant memory buried away, Claude had made it swiftly through theology and turned to canonical law and the study of the decretals. When he finished with those studies, he turned to medicine and the liberal arts. Here, he discovered a new passion: Science. It was new, it was perfect, it made complete, absolute sense – in essence, it was wonderful. He took it all in with ardent love and, because Science is so vast, continued to do so for the rest of his life._

_Languages were next, and he learned Latin, Greek, and Hebrew – those languages created a trio rarely learned at the time, but he felt they were all necessary. Also, he simply could not stop learning!_

_Then a rift in life occurred when he turned twenty – the plague swept through the jurisdiction of Paris, particularly attacking the Rue Tirechappe. Claude's “home” was in the middle of that place._

_Rather alarmed, he arranged the right to leave the University and hurried to the fief of Tirechappe, but, alas, the Frollos had passed away the night before._

_Claude knew that he should have felt some sort of emotional response to death of his mother and father, but, in truth, there was nothing. His parents were the human beings that had joined together to conceive him. They had sent him away to the Collége de Torchi to become a priest, and paid for all of it. Yes, he was grateful, but he mostly felt bitter contempt towards them, or perhaps complete indifference. Strangers had died. No more._

_No less._

_A week or so afterwards, the dean of the Collége called Claude to his office. There, Claude was startled to find the Bishop._

_Claude was a remarkable student, they said, and it was time he embraced his destiny and stepped into the Church. The Holy See was making a special dispensation, and Claude could become a fully ordained priest at his young age, if he so wished.  
  
Claude agreed without thinking. He had spent his entire life preparing for the Church, and it would be a shame to let such vast knowledge go to waste.  
  
He was given the duty of performing the service called the _ altare pigorum _, or the “sluggards' altar”. The altar was beside the door in the choir leading into the nave, on the right and near the image of the Holy Virgin._  
  
_One Quasimodo Sunday, after the mass, he saw a group of chortling nuns around the foundling bed. They were laughing at something that their tight-knit bodies hid from Claude's eyes._  
  
_Stepping closer to the charity bed, he quickly saw what it was the women were laughing at. It was an ugly monster, tied up in a sack and screaming – whether out of fear or hunger was hard to say. The creature was hidden in the sack, but the head was visible, and oh, what a ghastly head! There was but one eye hidden beneath a mop of tangled red hair, with sharp fangs like those of a vampyrific demon. The thing squirmed in the sack, vying for freedom and wailing like the Devil._  
  
_Looking at that poor child, the poor thing so mercilessly abandoned with his fate laid out for him, Claude was overwhelmed with pity. The thing was to die, suffer unless some breath of mercy issued forth from someone's lips._  
  
_Claude adopted the child._  
  
_Later, upon freeing it from the sack, Claude was able to further assess the misfortunes God had bestowed on the little monster. All over, the creature was a total beast; its head was sunk into its shoulders, its spine was arched and its breastbone protruded, and its legs were bowed. Poor child! And yet, despite all of its misfortune, the monster was lively and hurried around Claude's room with great life, jabbering away things in a language that sounded like one from Hell._  
  
_Poor child! Claude called the little monster over to him and it wrapped its arms around his legs in a burst of relieved appreciation._  
  
_Claude hadn't known how to react, so he simply stared at the child, watching as its froth dribbled onto his robes. He was disgusted, but he took his comb and began to brush the child's messy hair in a vain effort to make it look presentable._  
  
_He christened the child "Quasimodo", though he was never sure if it was because of the day he found him, or if the child could only be described as “quasi” human. Perhaps both reasons._  
  
_It was six years later that he found some more of Paris's unwanted garbage – Pierre Gringoire. The poor, downtrodden filth in the gutter moved him inside and also piqued his curiosity, so he had stopped and asked, “What are you lying in the gutter for, boy?”_  
  
_The boy had sat up, eyes wide as saucers. It gave Claude a better chance to look at the child, and he quickly was able to see that it was not a child, but a young man. Claude saw nothing particularly remarkable about him; he had chin-length, greasy, brownish black hair, long eyelashes, and was as skinny as a twig. He was not remarkable in the least._  
  
_“I...” the boy began. It seemed as though he was in shock. “I...” He drifted off._

_Claude waited for the young man to continue, but he didn't, so the priest bent down. “Well?” he asked. “Come, come, speak - when I ask someone a question, I expect an answer.”  
  
“But I not know why I lie in the gutter, Father.” The boy flushed and lowered his gaze, muttering nonsensical nothings; Claude scrutinized him.  
  
“It cannot be because you are comfortable,” he remarked. “Perhaps you should get up.” Claude grabbed the boy's arm and they stood. “Come. I'll take you back to Notre Dame and you can explain a few things to me.”  
  
The boy seemed to bound after the priest as they went to the cathedral. Claude noted that the young man kept stealing little peeks at him and had rolled his eyes to himself. _ Awestruck riffraff _, he thought._  
  
_Now, ten years later, he thought about that same “awestruck riffraff” with a tint of longing and passion._  
  
_It was confusing._


	17. La fille avec cheveux vert

“...And then, do you know what he did next?” I asked.

“I can't imagine,” the prostitute replied, sounding bored. Her gaze drifted around the tavern, seemingly unable to rest on a fixed object.

“He, that...that...that  _bastard_  attacked my wife and probably would have raped her had his foster son not come when he did.” A pain met my heart when I remembered Dom Claude, but it was soon clashed with anger and betrayal. “And to  _think_  I loved the man. To think!”

She held out the bottle to me. “Have another drink. Then can we get to work?”

“Just a second,” I assured her. I took a sip, then, enjoying the rush of relief the alcohol gave me, chugged the entire drink down. “I'm not done yet.”

“Joy,” she remarked sarcastically.

“When I was young,” I continued, “say your age, thereabouts – he found me. Discovered me, as I should say, in the gutter, and he took me in and civivilized me, taught me about this and that and that and this...” I gesticulated around, feeling everything pour out of me and onto this sweet girl with the greenish-colored hair. “I owe everything to that man, and now I _hate_ him. I don't love him anymore or anythin', cause he's a monster, going and raping an innocent swixteen-year-old girl who wouldn't even hurt a fly.”

“I thought you said that he didn't rape her.” She began to tap her foot, looking off into the distance.

“Oh, no, no," I protested, "he didn't, but he certainly would have, I know so.” I looked down at my drink, sad that it was gone. “He dreams about it often enough. Did I mention he's a priest?”

“No,” she stated monotonously.

“Well, he's a priest. The Archdeacon, as-a-matter-of-factly. He's tall - taller than me by probably four inches or so - with short brown hair that has these grey streaks in it. He's aged thirty-six - which is ten years older than me, since I'm twenty-six, you know - and his skin in so pale, you just wouldn't even believe. He also has these quite singular eyes, though they're rather scary when you first see them. See, they're dark and hollow, kind of sunken, but it's still attractive, on him, and-”

“God's cross," the girl swore, "are you sure you hate this man?” She sounded rather annoyed and I blinked at her. She stared at me a moment, then put a hand to her mouth and lowered her gaze.

"Sorry," she apologized; " I shouldn't have spoke."

"No, no," I said, tapping her hand lightly. "I wanna hear what you have to say. I won't bite." The elbow propping me up gave away and my head went crashing into the floor. I groaned.

"Well," she began slowly. “You sound as though you're still – how'd you put it? – 'infatuated'. Whatever that means.”

“That's ridikshulous,” I protested, “I told you I hate him.”

“Well, it sure doesn't sound like it, honey.”

“Well.” I pulled at my hair. “I do.”

“Look,” she began, leaning onto the table. "You wanted my opinion." Her low front sunk down even more and she assumed an even greater air of complete and total boredom. “And I think that you can tell yourself you hate him, fine, go ahead, see if I care. But I say that you still love that priest, and I'm just a way to help you forget your heartcrack or whatever it is you poets like to call it.”

“I always come to Val d'Amour when I'm upset,” I replied. She and I both knew that it was a weak response.

“So I've heard from the other girls. You've visited a lot recently, haven't you? Not that we've got a problem with it – the more money, the better – but you know. You're upset. I think he's upset, too.”

“Him? Upset?” I laughed. “Please – he's always upset, annoyed, or irritated, usually with me or some other trival thing that really shouldn't bother him at all. But he doesn't show it – he won't let himself.”

“Hm," she replied. "And yet you said he cried when you kissed him.”

“That was a mistake,” I said quickly; “I wasn't thinking. It was stupid, not one of my better moments.”

“I was talking about him, not you.”

“Oh, I-”

“You said he started to cry,” she interrupted. “And you yourself just said that he won't let himself show when he's upset. And yet he was crying.” She shook her head and began to pick at her nails. “Sounds like you got him upset beyond all reason. And you really were stupid by asking when you could come back. Honestly, Poet, of all the things to ask.”

“Sorry,” I muttered. Then I shook my head. “But even if he was upset, it's no excuse for what he did. Tried to do, I mean.”

“No, it isn't,” she agreed. “But I think you're just being too hard over all of it. Just let him go. His mistake, so no need for you to beat yourself up over it.”

“Ten years I loved him. Or was it less than that?” I paused, trying to place the exact moment I knew I'd loved him. “I can't say. Maybe it was when-”

“Yes, yes,” she interjected quickly, “it's been a ridiculously long time and you need to get over him. Honestly. Now.” She sat up, becoming official again. “Can I do my job or just take your money and leave?”

I looked down at my drink, then back up at the girl. Her hair was completely green in the dim lighting and I suddenly realized that I was tired and didn't particularly want to forget that night, not when things were so fresh; I was going to have a headache the following morning, anyway, and would feel wretched even if I used her services, so why bother?

So I pulled out my purse and tossed it at her. “Keep the change.”


	18. Blanche

_Yawning and stretching, Claude blinked his eyes open and stretched a bit. Something was amiss; he couldn't say what, though, and it nagged at him. What could it be? He lay there, immersed under the blankets, and he noticed fondly that they were so warm and comfortable and-_ Blankets?

_He sat up slowly and the blankets slid down: it was true, he did still have blankets. And he felt rested, almost, even clean. He hadn't woken up feeling clean, rested, and covered in blankets in months, not since-_  
  
_He blinked. The night had been almost peaceful. Or was it the night before that that had been peaceful? Claude tried to remember what had happened the last few nights, but his mind was a blank. Was this the first morning that he had felt so happy? He couldn't even answer that question._  

_He pressed his fingertips to his temples and closed his eyes, letting himself breathe. He didn't know how he felt - relieved, yes, but also alone and ill-loved. Forgotten._ _What were his emotions? They didn't make any sense._

_“Quasimodo,” Claude whispered. He opened his eyes and stood up; ghost-like, he drifted over to the doorway and stepped out onto the bell tower. “Quasimodo,” he called, voice louder._  
  
_It only took fifteen minutes for him to search the bell tower and discover that his son was gone. Claude fleetingly wondered where the hunchback was, then decided to just forget it. Quasimodo could come and go as he pleased, and Claude really did need to stop being so dependent on him._  
  
_Looking outside, he was surprised to see that sun was a good ways in the sky. It had to be eight o'clock, far later than he'd ever slept in his entire life. He looked up at the grey heavens, then lowered his gaze down to the Place du Parvis, where small ants were scurrying around, busying themselves. Claude leaned himself against a gargoyle and watched the little ants, trying to differentiate between all of them; they were too small._  
  
_At length, he began to mutter to himself – or, more specifically, he was saying to nobody what he wanted to say to somebody._  
  
_“I survived the night.”_  
  
_Claude felt warm and satisfied inside, and his facial muscles pricked up into a smile. He looked at the gargoyle. “I survived the night, you hear, monster? The day has come.” He pet the stone and looked back down at the little people. His heart ached and his smile fell._  
  
_“Where are you, Maître Pierre?” he asked softly, sighing; his head slumped forward and a lock of hair fell limply into his face. He looked at the hair, suddenly distracted, and then he_ _straightened up and ran his fingers through his hair. As his hands fell to his side, he somehow knew that something was wrong._

_There was a place in the bell tower where the roof leaked a little; Quasimodo kept a bucket there. Thinking back, Claude remembered that the bell-ringer only emptied it every once in a while, and, with it being spring, Claude assumed the bucket would be relatively full._

_Full enough._  
  
_He went over to where the bucket was and paused, just looking at it for a few minutes. Then he took a deep breath and crouched on his knees, closing his eyes. Before he could lose the nerve, he opened them._  
  
_It took Claude a moment to recognize the man in the water as himself. The last time he'd seen himself in a looking-glass, he had had brown hair with grey flicks – how could his hair have so quickly lost all it's color and turned so bright a white? He stared at himself, blinking as he tried to comprehend it._

_He heard the floorboards creak and looked up. It was just Quasimodo with an empty bucket; Claude glanced back down at himself._

_“I survived the night, Quasimodo.”_

_Claude was so happy, so sad, that rain landed in the bucket. He ran his fingers through his hair again, and noted that it seemed softer, thinner, longer._

_“Anarkia had its way with my hair.” He laughed softly to himself, and it mixed with his sobs, becoming forgotten. “But I prevail. It will be the only victim of Death Destiny.” He laughed again and looked back up at Quasimodo - he drew in a breath._

Anarkia doesn't have to stop with only one victim.

_“Oh, God,” he murmured. “No one's safe.” He cried harder. “They can't die! No! Please, Lord, have pity!” He caught a glimpse of himself in the bucket and the world went white-hot and he tipped the bucket so the water could spill everywhere and he wouldn't have to look at himself; Claude ran to Quasimodo and put a hand on his hump. “Quasimodo, I-I'm cursed! You have to go...leave me, leave me to die! Find Pierre Gringoire – try the Palace of Justice, Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois, go so far as to search the entire the Court of Miracles if necessary! Whatever you do, you need to find him, warn him, and then you both need to leave!”_

_But Quasimodo just stood there, confused and concerned. Claude shook him._

_“Why are you just standing there?" he asked. "Find him and get yourselves away from me!”_

_The hunchback looked up at Claude and put his bucket down; he grabbed the priest's arm and escorted him out of the room, to the winding staircase. He sat him down on the steps._

_“Wait there,” the hunchback said, turning to go back to the mess. Claude opened his mouth to protest, but eventually just closed it and slumped his forehead down to his knees so he could hide._

Oh God.


	19. Le decision

_Claude didn't sleep well that night. Really, he didn't sleep well for any night the next few weeks; he was scared._

_Quasimodo had said that anarkia couldn't have a wrath because it was a word and words don't have wraths, but he was wrong, Claude knew he was. Anarkia was going to destroy them, Quasimodo and Gringoire. Claude had defeated the witch, kept her away so she only visited on the particularly horrible nights, but Death Destiny was still there. If it couldn't kill Claude, then it would kill those he loved. It was only a matter of time._

_And whenever Claude thought about this, the more confused he felt. Yes, he loved Quasimodo - he realized that now - as every father had a right to love his son, but Gringoire? Gringoire was just the poor boy from the gutter that Claude had taken pity on those ten years ago, and had eventually befriended through a mutual appreciation for architectural magnificences and other such things._

_Of course, they weren't friends now; Pierre thought that Claude had tried to hurt the gypsy girl, but the priest hadn't!_  
  
But it didn't matter - did it? People come and people go, so what was one poet out of an entire growing world of people?  
  
“Everything,” Claude eventually mumbled. Then he squeezed his pillow and pulled the blankets tighter around himself. “Gringoire means everything to me.” He felt like the way he had around that Jérôme person all those years ago, when he was a child. But this was different, not just some fleeting little passionate...thing. It was so much more serious and there, _and it was frightening. Claude was scared._  
  
_The Archdeacon laid there and stared straight ahead. His head was immersed in the comfort of the pillow and covered in such soft, warm blankets, but he felt tense and afraid._  
  
_He knew that he couldn't stand by and let Quasimodo take party in both his and Pierre's demise. Maybe, if Claude left, things wouldn't be bad. If he did things right, maybe the curse would follow him, and then they'd both be safe._  
  
_When he thought it through some more, he found that he didn't even want to stay at the cathedral, or even in Paris, for that matter. It would be best to leave, he decided._


	20. Une promenade

_“Father, we are going out.”_

_Startled, Claude looked at Quasimodo, then swallowed. He promptly lowered his gaze and put down the bread, frowning. “What?” he asked, voice hoarse. “Why? Where?”_

_“You've been caged up in this bell tower," Quasimodo explained gently, "for the past three, maybe four months. So we're going to go for a walk around the city; you could use the fresh air.”_

_Claude didn't want to go walk around the city – or anywhere – but Quasimodo didn't seem like he would listen to his protests._

_“Fine,” Claude agreed. He pulled the bread back up to his mouth and took a bite. After swallowing, he continued, “What harm could there be in a walk.”_

**\+ +** **+** **  
**

_Quasimodo took him to the Church of Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois, then said he had to do something, but that he would be right back. He sat Claude down in the pew and gave him a little kiss on the cheek._

_“This should only take a moment,” the hunchback assured him. Claude nodded, barely registering his own action, and Quasimodo left._

_Claude sat there, looking around the church. Unwanted memories flashed back to him and he dragged his gaze down to his lap. He_ _sighed._


	21. Comment est-ce arrivé ?

So time went on like that. I did not go to the cathedral, or anywhere near it, nor did the bastard come look for me. Perhaps he had realized what a grave mistake he had tried to make. Or, more likely, he could care less about me. If he never saw me again, so much the better.

~~_damn him for making me feel like this_ ~~

The refugees, from what I had heard in the shadows, were getting tired of the cathedral. They were apparently talking about leaving the church, even Paris herself. Meanwhile, the de Gondelauriers were struggling with a rebellious Fleur-de-lys, though the gossip seemed to be pretty sparse on the matter.

February melted into March into April into May. Soon it would be June. It was warm; I took to leaving my ratty old coat at the Court of Miracles.  _Maybe I should leave the Court..._  No, it was the only residence I had. Where would I go? No, it was better to stay and meander the days with the thieves and vagabonds.

One day, I was walking and thinking about what the green-haired girl had told me. True, I had not seen her in over a month, not since she had given her advice and taken my money, but her suggestion was still strong in my mind.

When I thought about it, it occurred to me that I could live without the priest. I could overcome the misery and stay where I was, far from him. It was an upsetting prospect, but I figured that I could.

I was deep in thought on this when, suddenly, my walking was interrupted by someone: it was Dom Claude's ward.

“Quasimodo!” I was surprised; the hunchback never left the cathedral - or, if he did, hardly ever alone like this.

Quasimodo didn't offer any formalities. “Monsieur Gringoire, I need to show you something.” His voice was rougher than I remembered, but then, we had hardly ever talked, so what did I know?

“What is it?” I wondered.

“Just come,” he replied. Then he grabbed my arm and began to gimp off. I stuttered out some words, but he ignored me, and it was impossible to escape that iron grip. I decided to humor the poor old hunchback and let him drag me away. For old time's sake.

He led me down a few streets and dragged me into the Church of Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois. I pushed away the cascading memories and let him pull me in.

Then I saw what he wanted to show me; I squirmed. “Quasimodo, let go of me!” I pulled and the priest stood up from the pew - I barely recognized him, but I knew that face, those dark eyes.. It had to be him standing there, despite the obvious change. I gaped.  _How could that have happened?_

“Quasimodo!” Dom Claude hissed, sounding tired and annoyed: what was new? Then the Archdeacon began to try and walk away, but the hunchback grabbed his hood and we were both stuck.

“Let me go!” I cried, pulling on my arm.

“Quasimodo, stop!” the priest snapped. While he spoke, he tried to reach behind and pull his hood out of his adoptive son's grasp, but the human body is not meant to bend that way and his attempts were totally futile. “Let go, I say!”

“Now,” Quasimodo began. His voice was loud and gravelly in the church, and the Dom Claude and I stopped protesting and looked at each other.

“Monsieur Gringoire, listen. What Esmeralda said...” It was shocking to note that the hunchback didn't say the gypsy's name the way he used to, like it was the most holy and pure thing he had ever heard and could hope _to_ hear or even say. Indeed, there seemed to be a slight trace of annoyance in his voice, coupled with dejection.

“...Esmeralda said about Father trying to hurt her...”

'Father!' What?

“...Father trying to hurt her, it isn't true. She didn't understand how upset Father was.” The hunchback released both me and the priest and turned his entire attention to the latter, smoothing his robes and sitting him back down in the pew. I blinked, trying to take it all in.  _How could that have happened?_

“He never touched her,” Quasimodo continued. “He was just confused.” I couldn't believe it when the hunchback gave Frollo a peck and the priest did absolutely nothing.

“I want you two to talk now,” the bell-ringer added, beginning to back away. “I'm going to be right outside the door, waiting for you two to walk out together. You will talk.”

And with that, the priest and I were left alone in the church, quietly staring at each other.

As I said above, Dom Claude was a lot different than I remembered him. His hair had gone nearly white and was also messy around his face - it made his face appear some ten, twenty years older, but I don't think he aged there at all, just his hair. He looked at me and then turned his entire body away. The rings under his eyes were so dark, and he looked so frail, like he would break at any moment.

“I suppose Quasimodo was telling the truth?” I eventually asked, mostly to break the silence. He peered at me out of the corner of his eye and nodded curtly, with a faint shrug.

“Oh,” I said. Then I paused. “Well. I'm sorry. Esmeralda was mistaken?”

“I don't want to tal-” He broke off suddenly and grabbed at his robes; he pulled on them. “I just wanted to be with Quasimodo.”

I sat down, deciding to listen to what he had to say.

He shifted in his seat. “She was there. She panicked because of...because of what happened...” He drew in a breath. “Because I stabbed that captain.” The priest paused. “I-I'm not guiltless, I thought about it, Pierre, but I promise you, I never-”

“It's all right,” I interrupted. “You don't need to tell me.” I wasn't sure I wanted to know.

“No, I do need to.” He leaned back and closed his eyes, releasing a breath. He began to twitch lightly. “Quasimodo came. We talked. Pierre...” He looked at me, but quickly jerked himself away. “I...I...I missed you, and... I am so sorry.” He paused and seemed to consider his words. “For everything.”

I gave him a weak half-smile. “I'm sorry, too. I shouldn't...” I swallowed, smile sliding off my face. “I shouldn't have kissed you. I don't know what I-”

“Pierre,” he said again, standing up; Dom Claude slid into my pew next to me and ran his fingers through his long white hair, letting bad posture take over his whole body. “Maître Pierre, don't be sorry for that.” He looked at me. “Please.” He leaned closer and let his head fall forward.

I placed an arm around him and he didn't move; I wonder if he even breathed. I brought up my hand and began to rub his hair between my fingers.

“You've aged,” I noted. He made a grunt of agreement and straightened up. Then he leaned back against my arm and closed his eyes, drawing in a cold breath.

“Things have been difficult,” he mumbled. “Very difficult.”

His hair, white as a winter morning, was blinding. I licked my lips, then brushed some out of his face. He looked at me again.

“You're thinner,” he said. He lowered his gaze, then looked up again. “When was the last time you had a good meal?”

In truth, I couldn't remember - most of my money had been invested into Val d'Amour. But I didn't say that; I knew he wouldn't approve. “Things have been difficult,” I replied. “Very difficult.”

He frowned, then looked away again. We were quiet.

Then he spoke again.

“Pierre...I've made a decision.” Claude gulped and clenched his hands into fists. “I'm l-leaving Paris.”

“What?” I gasped, using my available hand to turn his head to face me. “Claude, why?”

“I can't stay here,” he whispered, choking up. “All my life, everything has been planned for me. It was my parents who were the ones that decided I would be a priest, back when I was too young and naive to understand the complexities of religion. I don't want Fate anymore, Pierre - I'm going to go to Tirechappe and put some final affairs in order, and then...” He trailed off.

We looked at each other. His eyes were glittering with tears.

_The prostitute was right,_  I realized, looking at him.  _He_ is _upset_. I suddenly felt guilty when I realized that I was almost certainly the reason.

“I don't know.” Claude's voice wasn't even a whisper, so low as it was. “I don't know.”

I leaned in and kissed him. He jerked a bit, but slowly relaxed and let himself get drawn in.

We broke apart softly after a minute and I wrapped my arms around him, making a line of kisses along his jawline and up to his ear. He shivered.

“Can I come?” I murmured into his ear, kissing it. Claude groaned softly and leaned forward, resting his head on my shoulder. I felt it go wet. When I tried to pull him away from me, he struggled, seeming intent to remain in my arms.

“Claude, don't be afraid to cry in front of me,” I said, pulling him away. He refused to look at me. “Claude, it's all right now. I'm sorry I made you upset.”

“It's not just you,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes with a shaky hand. “I said the past months have been difficult. They have been. Very difficult.” He began to fiddle with his sleeve, as if to keep himself from looking at me. “It was as if everything, the whole word, it just came in on me. It was hard.”

I thought about what I'd been doing while he suffered like that and, well, I felt guilty all over again.

“But you're right,” he continued, looking up at me. His eyes were red and his lashes were wet – the tears made his eyelashes look longer, somehow. “It...it's all right now.”

I smiled weakly at him and leaned in for another kiss, but he pulled back and pushed me away.

“However,” he began, “can you come with me?” He looked at something behind me. “I don't...I don't know. It just is all so sudden. I  _want_  you to come with me, Pierre, but I don't know if that is a good idea. The future is so blank...anarkia – and-”

I put my fingers to his lips, stopping him. “It's not Fate. It's my decision.” He opened his mouth to reply and I traced his lips, relishing their softness and every groove. Those lips I could now say I'd kissed. I wanted to cry from joy, but was still whirling from the bliss of it all.

_How could that have happened?_

He reached up and brought my hand down. “I'll...I'll think about it.”


	22. Dans la Galerie des Rois

_“Quasimodo?”_  
  
_Claude found that he really didn't want to do this – he'd miss the hunchback, and his heart was getting tugged on just thinking about what he had to do._  
  
_Quasimodo looked at him and smiled...or at least Claude thought it was a smile. In all approximation, it must have been._  
  
_A lump rose in the priest's throat. “Quasimodo...” He drifted off. He'd considered over and over how he was going to tell the hunchback this, but practice never really prepares someone for the real thing._  
  
_“Quasimodo, I...I'm...” Claude drew in a breath and began to cough, wiping the sweat on his palms off on his thighs._  
  
_“Father?” Quasimodo was on the defense now. Before, Claude would have found the constant babying irksome, and he still did, but he was also thankful for the attention. It gave him an opportunity to muster up the courage to say what he needed to say._  
  
_“I am very thankful for all that you did for me, Quasimodo.” Claude leaned against the wall, looking at the bells to keep from looking at their ringer. “You can't...you cannot imagine how much.”_  
  
_He felt that feeling again, that horrible feeling that always came before tears. The way he could hardly breathe, and how his eyes stung and burned, all while his heart just seemed to sink down within him. He told himself he should let the tears come, that he'd feel better if he did, but he forced them back._  
  
_“Quasimodo, I'm leaving.”_  
  
_“What?” Quasimodo asked._  
  
_But Claude didn't want to repeat his words. He turned away, rubbing his eyes and coughing again. “I have to.”_

_“But, but, but – why?”  
  
“I'm sorry.” How many times had he said that the past week? He'd lost count.  
  
“But, Father-” _ Why did he have to call me 'Father,' that is making me want to collapse again. _ _“-aren't you happy here with me?”  
  
“No,” Claude admitted quietly. “B-B-B-But it's not you, it's just this place.” He looked up at the bells. “It has too many memories. I don't want to stay, Quasimodo.”  
  
Quasimodo was quiet, and it was horrible. Claude wished he would say something – anything – just so the priest could go away and break his news to Gringoire-  
  
He'd told himself that he wasn't going to think about Pierre Gringoire.  
  
“Is it him?” Quasimodo asked. “Is __ he _ _the reason?”  
  
“No,” Claude protested weakly. “No, he's not. I'm-” __ I'm going to leave him, just like I'm leaving you and everything else that can remind me of what I want to forget. It's for your own safety. _ _He couldn't bring himself to utter the words. “Quasimodo, I promise you-”__

_“We finally come to terms with each other, and now you're running away with_ that poet!” _Claude winced and sat down on his knees. He hung his head, feeling his face go wet - the tears stung his cheeks, made them feel raw and it hurt_ so much _..._

_“He's not coming with me.”_  
  
_Claude wanted Pierre to come with him...and Quasimodo...but it would be better if they both stayed. Claude needed to go and leave it all behind him. Leaving would be his escape from Esmeralda, the past year, everything. His chest ached thinking about it all, what and who he would leave, but he couldn't stay and they couldn't come._ Anarkia.

_“He's staying in Paris.” Claude licked his lips and swallowed. “He's coming tonight, and I'm going to tell him.” He dared bring his gaze up to the hunchback's. “He's probably here now, waiting for me.” He shivered._

_“Why do you have to go?” Quasimodo gimped over to his bells and began fondling their ropes. Claude watched him._

_“I just do. Don't be upset with me.”_

_“I feel sorry for you,” Quasimodo stated, partway looking at Claude over his shoulder, “because I know that you're leaving to escape the guilt you feel. But I'm not upset.”_

_Claude wiped his tears on a sleeve and closed his eyes. He only opened them when he heard creaking wood; Quasimodo was bending down in front of him._

_Before Claude could even blink, the hunchback scooped him up into an embrace. Claude felt the wind get knocked completely out of him and spluttered._ Sometimes Quasimodo forgets his own strength.

_When Quasimodo let Claude go, the priest noted that his son's eyes were shinier than usual; his throat tightened._

_“When?”_

_“Soon,” Claude whispered. “Perhaps tomorrow evening.”_

_Quasimodo nodded and reached up, brushing a stray strand of Claude's hair out of the priest's face. Claude's face crumpled and he had a sudden memory – it was after he had adopted Quasimodo, and he was combing the boy's hair._ Surely he can't remember that, _Claude thought to himself, scrutinizing the hunchback._ He was so young. _But the look on Quasimodo's face told Claude that, yes, Quasimodo did remember, and now he was repaying more of his debt._

_A tear slid down Claude's face._  
  
_“Are you sure?” Quasimodo asked. Claude nodded and the bell-ringer brought down his hand. “And I suppose there's nothing I can do to make you stay?”_  
  
_“I have to.” It's for your own good._

**+++**

_Outside, when Claude got to the Gallery of the Kings, Gringoire was standing at the balustrade. He had his back to Claude. Claude just stood there, holding open the door and staring at the poet. He wanted to run, escape, anything but tell Pierre the truth. And Gringoire just stood there, oblivious to the heavy gaze on the back of his head. Claude closed his eyes and shut the door behind him. Pierre turned.  
  
Quietly, Claude weaved through the maze of statues and joined the poet at the balustrade. Gringoire smiled at him and Claude couldn't help but feel a bit better about what he had to do. _ Surely he will forgive me and understand.

_“Claude,” Pierre greeted. He reached out for the priest, stepping closer, but Claude recoiled, suddenly remembering that anarkia was watching. Waiting._

_“Not here, Pierre.” Claude looked around at the kings. “Not the church...” He shuddered, turning away._

_Gringoire took off his tattered old rag of a coat and held it out to Claude. Eyeing him, the priest took the coat. He suddenly wished that he had accepted Pierre's embrace and put the coat on as a way of compensation. He knew he looked ridiculous and shook his head._

_Gringoire laughed, but stopped and looked down at the City when Claude glared at him._

_“The moon is out tonight,” Pierre remarked. Claude nodded. He told himself that he would tell Gringoire at some point._ Soon.

_“I have always found the moon to be beautifully inspirational,” Gringoire continued, “and, thus, She was my muse.”_

_“ 'Was'?” Claude repeated, looking at him strangely; Pierre waved a nonchalant, carefree hand at him._

_“I became a married man,” he stated. “Though, most truthfully and unfortunately, the moon is far more inspirational than my wife.” He paused, looking back up at the moon. “Perhaps She will accept my apologies and take me back.”_

_“Perhaps.” Claude glanced up at the moon, suddenly wanting the simplicity of it. He looked at the moon and saw complete and total emptiness. He sighed. “The moon always fascinated me,” he admitted. “I would look at it and wonder.”_

_“What about?” Gringoire asked._

_“Nothing,” Claude replied. He could barely breathe now. “About nothing.”_

_He felt violated and suffocated now; he'd never told anyone about his admiration for the moon. It seemed wrong, somehow, to love nighttime's maiden._

You are supposed to be telling him _, he reminded himself. He looked away from the moon, down at the balustrade._

_Gringoire whispered his name and Claude felt a gentle hand slip itself around his waist; he knew without looking who the hand belonged to. Heart beating wildly in his chest, Claude bent down and kissed the poet. He heard all the sounds around them turn into a buzz, felt everything go fuzzy._

_He remembered the reason he was there and pulled away, choking again._

_“Pierre, we need to talk.”_

_“What about?” Gringoire wondered. His gaze was over Claude's head, and Claude remembered how surprised the poet had looked when he had seen Claude's white hair for the first time._

_“About what I said in the church,” Claude replied, “about where I am going.” It was hard to think clearly, but what he had to do was clear. He_ had _to do it; Gringoire would forgive him someday._

_The poet nodded. Claude found it hard to bring the words to his lips, and he shifted. With a sigh, he pulled away and leaned against a pillar for support._

_He had to tell Gringoire. It would be cruel to leave without a word, though it wouldn't have stopped him before. But things were different now. Regardless, he had to turn away from those few people who loved him. Again, he told himself that it was for their own_ good.

_Something touched his cheek and Claude jerked back into reality, blinking. The poet's fingers were on his face._ Why did you have to do that, Pierre?

_“Pierre,” Claude began, slowly, “I-I-I don't know. I just don't know. I want you to come with me, but it would probably be better for you to stay here, in Paris, with your...” It was hard to bring the word to his mouth. “Wife...”_

_“Claude.”_

_“After all, you and she are in a matrimonial relationship...of a fashion...and that means that you have certain duties towards her...”_

_“She and I are no more husband and wife than utter strangers. And, also, I've heard that she and the other Vagabonds are going to leave Paris.” Gringoire's voice was cold, mechanical, and it nearly stopped Claude. However, the priest ignored him and carried on._

_“Of course, I understand that your monetary situation is rather dire, and I shall happily give you everything you may need to be comfortable-”_

_“Claude,” Gringoire interrupted harshly. Claude had no choice but to stop talking and look at the poet. He frowned._

_“Claude,” Pierre repeated, voice softer. “Claude, please.” Gringoire grabbed the priest's hands and Claude felt himself break out in a sweat. Hardly able to breathe, he looked behind them, at the dark hallway where anarkia was waiting, watching, preparing to strike and kill everyone Claude held dear. It was destiny, fate, it was anarkia-_ Oh, God, Pierre, please let go before something happens.

_Gringoire continued. “I haven't seen Esmeralda in many months.” Claude felt the name claw at his entrails and he shivered at the memories it summoned._

_“She could care less for me,” Pierre stated, “and, while I do admit I love her, it is only because she saved me from certain death in the Court of Miracles.”_

_Claude couldn't look at Pierre, and staring in the direction of anarkia was making a rush of fear pulse through him, so he looked down at the City. He was thankful all the lights were out. It almost made him think that he and the poet were alone._

_“I don't want your money,” the poet said. “Indeed, if I were to have it, I dare say I would die from misery because I would always be reminded of who gave it to me. Claude, it's you I want.”_

_Gringoire pulled Claude's hands up and kissed them; Claude couldn't help but smile somewhat, despite his trepidation._

_“Please let me come with you.”_

_Claude looked at Gringoire. He really didn't want to leave Pierre behind, but it would be_ better _that way. But he also didn't want to face the future, all blank and unwritten, without someone to anchor him to before._

It will be better without him _._

_Emotions made no sense._

_Claude made an uncomfortable noise and pulled himself away, leaning back against the pillar; he looked up at the moon. It was watching them, the only witness to further sin._

_And yet, as Claude thought about it, the more he realized that he could care less about sin and everything else he'd been taught his entire life. The past months – no, the past_ year _– they had been terrible, but they'd taught him some things. They had taught him who he really, truly was inside, and everything that mattered. He mattered. God... He'd thought that God mattered, and maybe He did, but Claude thought about God and felt nothing but betrayal._

_He remembered his first fast. He had been told it would be purifying, and that it would leave him cleansed and powerful, dominant over all temptation. That week without a single bite of food had been terrible, and he'd secretly hated it. It had scared him to see his ribcage in such protruding detail. None of the fasts afterwards had been so terrible, but there was still the bitter taste of that first time that tainted everything._

_He went through all that, and even went so far as to flagellate himself for God's approval, and what had he received in return?_

_And Esmeralda. When Esmeralda was there, haunting and mocking him, what had God done?_

Nothing _. It all led up to nothing._

_Claude looked at the moon. He suddenly realized something. He wouldn't be able to bear things without Pierre Gringoire._

_He loved him._

_He recalled a Bible verse, the Romans 1:26-28._

“For this reason God gave them up to dishonorable passions. For their women exchanged natural relations for those that are contrary to nature; and the men likewise gave up natural relations with women and were consumed with passion for one another, men committing shameless acts with men and receiving in themselves the due penalty for their error. And since they did not see fit to acknowledge God, God gave them up to a debased mind to do what ought not to be done.”

_Claude stood there, running through the verse over and over. He felt furious and blinked up at the sky, wanting to scream at God for the injustice He had created. God would turn his back on Claude for something he couldn't help? Claude let out a breath; he would turn his back on God, then. There would be no more running; he would control his life, and when he died, there would be no Hell, because Hell was nothing but a lie used to chain people into stifling their inner emotions._

_He didn't care. God didn't matter – Pierre mattered, Quasimodo mattered, and Claude himself mattered._

No Fate. No God. Nothing.

_“All right,” Claude sighed, turning back to the poet with a shake of his head. “But this is a mistake, Pierre.”_

_Gringoire grinned and pulled Claude in for a hug. His hands pulled on the hood of Claude's cloak, and the poet pressed his lips to wherever he could find Claude's bare skin. Claude felt himself go warm, and he longed for his high collar to vanish so he could feel Pierre's hot lips against his throat. He felt the world go fuzzy and his head swam around and around._

_“It's a wonderful mistake, then,” Gringoire whispered, putting a hand on Claude's neck. Claude sighed and smiled –_ yes, a wonderful mistake. _Before the urge could vanish, Claude leaned back against the pillar, bringing Pierre up so he could kiss him easier._


	23. Epilogue

**“Quasimodo, do you know where Cla-” Gringoire quickly corrects himself. “Where _Dom_ Claude is?”**

**Quasimodo looks at Pierre Gringoire with a stony expression that could be saying anything: love, hate, perhaps a realm somewhere in-between. The point is, the poet can't say what Quasimodo is thinking, and it's unnerving.**  
  
**Quasimodo's reaction to the news that Claude would indeed be taking Gringoire away with him had been that of unsurprise and a shallow-sounding hope that the two of them would be happy together. Claude had hated the response, and offered to have Quasimodo go with them. _Or perhaps it was begging,_ Pierre thinks, remembering the priest's petulant tone and look.**  
  
**But Quasimodo had refused. He said he would be imposing, and that he needed to stay at the cathedral, with his “ladies” - the bells. The bells were everything to him, just as or near as important to him as Claude. His father had had no choice but to reluctantly agree.**

**Neither of them know if they'll ever see each other again.**  
  
**And now Pierre Gringoire is unsure if Quasimodo hates him or not.**  
  
**The hunchback speaks. “I saw him walking in the direction of the Gallery. He was distracted.”**  
  
**Pierre nods. “Thank you, Quasimodo.” The plan is that the two of them – Claude and Pierre – will take a skiff out of the City. Claude wants to leave as soon as possible, so he and the poet are leaving now, at three in the morning. This will give them plenty of time to escape. Chances are that they will have a month before the Church starts asking about Claude and finds out that he deserted. Thus will ensue a fruitless search, starting at Claude's property – though it hopefully will not be Claude's property for long, because Claude is going to leave his property for the Bishop confiscate, as a way of paying off final debts. And when that happens, Claude and Pierre will be long gone, not even dust.**  
  
**Pierre turns on his heel, preparing to go to the Gallery of the Kings. He's going to find Claude so he can find out what's bothering the priest now, when they're so close to freedom. However, Quasimodo speaks again and Gringoire stops, looking back.**  
  
**“If you're going to watch after him, there's something you should know.”**  
  
**Pierre completely turns himself around, and even goes so far as to bend down and look at Quasimodo better. “What?”**  
  
**“Father,” Quasimodo begins, beginning to sound uncomfortable. “Father, he... He isn't particularly strong. His emotions scare him.”**  
  
**“I know,” Pierre says.**

**“But you weren't there, Gringoire.” It's the first time Quasimodo has addressed Pierre by any term that isn't completely formal, and the poet isn't sure what to make of it. “You didn't see him cry like I did, literally collapsing at anything. You didn't hear him at night, weeping and trying not to scream.”**

**The pause that fills the bell tower then is loud, resonating. Pierre licks his lips, wondering what to say.**  
  
**“He tried to jump.” Quasimodo's words are quiet, but they seem like a roar in the quiet stillness. “He wanted to kill himself.”**  
  
**Pierre's eyes widen, but he's not surprised. Again, he feels guilty. Maybe if he had come and gotten the true story about what happened with Esmeralda earlier, then maybe Claude wouldn't have suffered so much. He would have had more support than his socially outcast, ugly foster son.**  
  
**_But who better?_ Gringoire asks himself. If Claude had come weeping to him, in the state Quasimodo described, Pierre doubts he would have handled it well. He had no place to keep the priest, hardly anything to offer but himself...and he was part of the problem.**  
  
**“He won't talk about any of it,” Quasimodo continues, quickly, “and he won't talk about anything at all unless you force him to.” The hunchback looked up at Pierre. “Force him. He's not... He still needs help. I don't think he even knows what could have happened to him.”**  
  
**“Of course.” Pierre knows that his words are ridiculous, but he feels like he has to say something. “Is there anything else I need to know?” He begins to wonder how much happened the past few months, and if he'd ever completely know.**  
  
**Quasimodo shrugs. “I think you know that he was upset because of you.”**

**Gringoire coughs. “I'm so sor-”**  
  
**“I don't know why or how,” Quasimodo interrupts, “and it almost scares me, considering what Our Lord will think come eternal judgment...” Pierre can't help but look up at the ceiling; not being a particularly religious man himself, the mention of divine beings in this conversation opens new possibilities that he truthfully just wants to ignore.**  
  
**Quasimodo swallows. “But I know Father loves you. He loves you very much.”**  
  
**The two men stand there, looking at each other. Pierre wonders if it's only his imagination that things are suddenly significantly less awkward.**

**“Keep him safe,” Quasimodo finishes at last. Pierre Gringoire nods.**

**“You have my word.”**

**+++**

**Claude jumps a little, startled by Pierre's sudden entrance. He turns away from anarkia and looks at the poet.**  
  
**“I thought you'd be here,” Gringoire says. He looks at the word, then back at Claude. “Are you ready to go?”**  
  
**Claude doesn't confirm or deny it, just glances back at the wall. He's begun to have doubts. “Maybe this is not a good idea.”**  
  
**“What?” Pierre asks. He steps up next to Claude, looking at him. “What do you mean?”**  
  
**Claude shifts uncomfortably and lowers his gaze to the ground. “I-I... Pierre, I haven't been completely frank with you.”**  
  
**“Oh?” The poet's talk with Quasimodo is still fresh in his mind, so instead of encouraging comfort, he encourages what's best. “And how not?”**  
  
**“Well...” Claude drifts off. “When you showed me anarkia, I told you it was Greek for 'fate.' ” He looks back up. “That's not entirely true.”**  
  
**Pierre arches an eyebrow. “So what does it mean, then?”**  
  
**Claude closes his eyes and hides them with his hand. Sensing rough waters, Pierre steps into action. He wraps his arms around Claude's waist and leans against the other man, trying to relay the message: “It's all right – I'm here.”**  
  
**He can only guess that the message is received; Claude pulls his hand away from his face. “Death fate,” he whispers.**  
  
**They're both quiet - Pierre isn't sure what to say. He feels like he should say something, but he doesn't know what. _Dammit, where's Quasimodo when you need him?_ He shakes the thoughts aside; Claude is his responsibility now, and if he can't handle a petty word meaning, then the two of them are both doomed.**  
  
**“I hardly see the issue,” Gringoire begins slowly. Claude jerks, and Pierre has no choice but to leave the warmth of his body and break away.**  
  
**“But – Pierre,” Claude stammers. “Anarkia – death...the girl...I mean...”**  
  
**Pierre frowns at him. “Claude, that's what you think it is.” He points to the word, that stupid word. “That right there is nothing but a word.”**  
  
**Claude stammers some more about “death,” and mentions a little bit about “doom” and "imminent destruction."**  
  
**“It means that because you've made it that,” Pierre argues. “Claude, anarkia is a word, same as god, freedom, and joy. Those are all just words, but they mean things to people _because_ of their definitions.”**  
  
**Claude breathes faster, staring at the word on the wall.**  
  
**Pierre wraps an arm around Claude and begins to steer him away. “Whoever engraved that on the wall was a poor, sick man with no respect for architecture. Now come on – let's leave it behind. That is the reason you're leaving right? To escape everything?”**  
  
**Claude stops walking and looks back at anarkia. Pierre inhales a breath, wondering if he has made a valid argument and Claude is feeling less anxious, or if things are just the same as before, if not worse.**  
  
**“Yes,” Claude admits. “To escape.” He turns away and they begin to walk again. “But-But let's not escape, Pierre. Let's abandon.”**  
  
**Escape, abandon: more words. But Pierre grasps their meanings. He rests his head on Claude's shoulder.**  
  
**“Very well; abandon we shall.”**  
  
**Above, there is no Heaven, no God. It's just peace resting in a beautiful landscape of night. Clouds dot the sky intermittently, and resting in them is the Queen of Night herself, the moon. She watches. Whether or not She's indifferent anymore is of no concern.**


End file.
